Harry Potter and the Chrysalis
by the Imaginizer
Summary: In which Harry Potter learns that even an unbroken soul is not immutable, and that everything has a price. The price of love is loss; the price of knowledge is understanding; the price of life is death; and the price of mastering Death...is far more than he ever wanted to pay. A continuation of Harry Potter and the Accidental Horcrux.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I know this is hard to believe, but I don't actually own any of this.

 **Prequel:** Harry Potter and the Accidental Horcrux, by me, the Imaginizer.

 **Posting Schedule:** With Harry Potter and the Accidental Horcrux, I posted once a week, sometimes even twice. I don't think I can keep that up, for this story. I'd written pretty far ahead, in the beginning, but I'm starting to catch up with myself now, so I think I'm going to post every two weeks, to be on the safe side. I'm sorry about this, but I feel like if I want to keep up the quality and the chapter sizes, this is the way it has to be. Hopefully I haven't shattered anyone's dreams. Yeah, yeah, "don't flatter yourself, Imaginizer", I know.

So...I'll be seeing you all every second Sunday (sometimes more, but no promises).

 **Warnings:** As this story covers the later years of Harry's adolescence, it covers more mature material than Harry Potter and the Accidental Horcrux did. Yes, people, I'm talking about sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Ok, ok, not quite. Well, kind of, actually. The warnings are as follows: abuse, offensive language (this story contains contains a foul-mouthed Burmese python), violence, sexually suggestive content (no explicit sex scenes), substance abuse, depictions of serious mental illness, and increasingly morally ambiguous protagonists.

 **Where we left off:** It's June, 1994, and Harry's third year at Hogwarts has come to a close. He's about to be delivered into the custody of his godfather, Sirius Black, who will soon be discharged from the Janus Thickey ward of St Mungo's after having been in therapy for the six months following his trial. First, however, Harry must survive three weeks at Spinner's End, in the care of none other than his temporary guardian, Professor Severus Snape, whose hatred of Harry seems to have waned significantly over the years...but Harry has reasonable doubts about his Head of House's intentions, and has no idea what to expect.

In the meantime, Hermione is trying to put together a peer support group at Hogwarts, Theo has newfound aspirations to overthrow the Ministry of Magic with Harry, Draco has had a reality check, Remus has departed for Canada, and Professor Dumbledore is watching Harry more closely than ever.

Oh, and Harry has this strange memory of his dead mother visiting him in a black limbo-like world and helping him wake up the piece of Lord Voldemort's soul which resides inside his head.

In short, I have my work cut out for me.

* * *

 **Prologue: Recovery**

 **or**

 **Chapter 1: Severus Snape (Part 4)**

The dinner table was silent, as it always was in the home of Severus Snape on Spinner's End; however, said silence was abnormally awkward, seeing as someone else was sharing in it.

Across from him sat a boy with messy black hair, somewhat overgrown and wildly swept this way and that, contrasting sharply with the unassuming, modest presence of the slightly rumpled grey button down and dark trousers he wore. Green – a bright emerald almost painfully jarring in its mesmerizing familiarity – eyes were hidden behind circular black spectacles, their eerie sheen muted by the shadow cast by the unruly black fringe hanging above, and they were blank and fixated on the plate in front of him. The expression reflected in the boy's green eyes was silent and generic, and they were just a little too distant to deny that their attentiveness was measured; but despite such an attempt at anonymity, their unusual hue served as a constant and potent testament to his silent guest's identity.

Harry James Potter.

It had been four days since he and Potter had arrived at his home on Spinner's End, and the boy had barely said a word since; in fact, now that he considered it, they had not exchanged more than a few stilted sentences since he partook in the perfunctory performance that was (semi)politely showing his guest where to sleep, eat, and mind his own business. After all, they had no need to speak, or barely interact at all; their days were primarily mutually exclusive, mechanical sets of instructions tuned to the ticking of the clock, their actions a slave to separate routines.

Every morning, the boy rose thirty minutes after he did, and would amble down the stairs another ten minutes later, just as he was finishing his breakfast. The boy would thank him for the modest portion he'd leave out for him – toast with blackberry jam, two poached eggs, and a quickly cooling pot of English Breakfast – and then he'd retreat to his laboratory, where he'd wordlessly perform the only activity that made his life a tolerable affair.

When he emerged to imbibe his midday meal the boy would still be at the kitchen table, oblivious to the time told by the noon sun, which would already be well into its traversal of the perpetually shrouded azure. He would be working diligently on his summer assignments - day one and two had been charms, day three and four were transfiguration – but would pack his parchment and books and writing utensils away when he arrived and offer to help make lunch. Together, they would construct sandwiches and soup – ham, cheese, and tomato, with a side of split pea – and eat in a stark silence only tempered by the sound of metal against unembellished white porcelain.

The first time they shared a meal, the boy had offered to do the dishes, and he didn't bother answering what had almost sounded like a request; he just charmed the dishes to do themselves. Seeing this, the boy's eyes had sparkled with muted excitement, and after a moment of admiring his spellwork he had asked for permission to go for a walk – a question he now repeated on a daily basis. Each day it was met by a curt nod. It was close to two hours later when he would hear the boy return and retreat to his bedroom for the next four hours. He would return to the kitchen at six thirty every evening, and after cooking whatever happened to come to mind - something bland containing potatoes, peas, and carrots - they'd eat dinner again in silence. Afterwards he would situate himself in the den and examine _The Journal of Experimental Potions and Herbology_ with a cup of darjeeling in hand _,_ and the boy would return to his bedroom without making a sound. He would not see him again until morning.

If he had thought that his summer research would at all be impeded by Potter's presence, he had been very wrong – most of the time, he forgot that Potter was even there, which was no difficult task. It was obvious that the boy was trying to make his presence as diminutive as possible, which he found himself grateful for...and concerned by. Yes, _concern –_ he would admit it to no one but himself, but it was certainly present. The boy _was_ his responsibility after all. A responsibility that he had failed in upholding until very recently.

He believed that he had good reason to be concerned, as well; it was odd that the boy was so docile, so unaffected after having been freed from his abusive relatives and promised the chance to live with his godfather, whom -

Ah yes, the godfather. _Black._ The very _word,_ the very _thought_ of the man made his stomach turn and a bitter taste invade his mouth, derailing his train of thought.

He refrained from choking on his food.

Sirius Black was a spoiled, imbecilic fool who carelessly squandered every advantage or privilege he was ever given (of which there were many) out of insolence and rebellion, and took pleasure in revelling in his own vices and misbehaviours. He had spent nearly his entire adult life as a prisoner deprived of any semblance of freedom, humane living conditions, or autonomy, and by extension, any experiences of responsibility or psychological development; as a child he was rash, narcissistic, and a trouble-maker through and through, and he doubted that Azkaban had facilitated much _...improvement,_ were such a thing even possible. Indeed, there was no doubt in his mind that Harry Potter, in his mere 13 years, had managed to accumulate more maturity than Sirius Black ever would in a lifetime. Far be it from him to praise Potter, but even a witless fool could see that Lily's son was a far superior specimen of a human being, when compared to _Black_. Yet, Potter would soon be delivered into the man's custody, to be placed under the ex-convict's authority; indeed, everyone seemed to believe that, for some reason, Sirius Black had the capacity to care for a child, one who was already a far more sophisticated being than Black was probably capable of comprehending, let alone positively influencing. The problem, of course, being that Potter was in dire need of a positive influence.

Harry Potter was an abused child. He'd seen worse, of course, but the fact remained that even if the physical scars were few and fading, the emotional abuse and years of neglect had clearly had a profound effect on the boy, and would continue to plague him even as he traversed adolescence into adulthood.

He knew this all too well. And he still couldn't believe he never saw it.

The very first time he saw the boy, he saw only one thing – some creature in the form of a James Potter back from the dead, who had stolen his beloved Lily's eyes. Perhaps those eyes had been too distant; perhaps James Potter's face had been too rigid and cautious. Perhaps this child, a strange hybrid of his love and his nemesis, had been visibly _different_ , _set apart_ from his fellow first year Hogwarts students.

If he had been, he had ignored it.

Then he'd heard that the boy lived with his aunt – bitter, cold, ill-mannered Petunia Evans, Lily's jealous and spiteful sister. Lily rarely spoke of her after they started Hogwarts, but he knew that at some point during their adolescence, the two sisters had stopped speaking to one another altogether. That's why he was quite taken aback when he heard that Lily's son had gone to her. Again, though, he did not think much of it. Yes, Petunia 'Tuney' Evans had a strong disdain for 'freaks', but surely she'd gone on to regret her treatment of her sister after her death. Surely the woman thought taking care of her sister's son was a noble way to make up for years of anger and distance. Potter was fine, lavished by the finer things in life by his doting aunt, who saw him as an opportunity to do right by her estranged sister.

That's what he told himself, and he believed it at the time.

Then he'd noticed the first of the anomalies – he'd noticed how silent, even reclusive the boy was; how he never spoke unless spoken to, or looked at anyone unless the situation demanded it. Even so, it never really occurred to him that the boy might be abnormally shy, scared of rejection – arrogant, that was the first place his mind went. Proud and condescending and caught up in the belief that he was superior to his peers. This impression was only confirmed the more he witnessed his colleagues' startlingly good impressions of the boy, and how quick they were to cater to him in class, feeding his ego shamelessly. Clearly, like his father before him, the boy had the entire Hogwarts faculty in his pocket.

Except him.

Even after he had heard the prefects' reports on the boy, he hadn't given it much more thought. Clearly all was not well, if the incredibly perceptive Hortense Rowland felt compelled to compare the boy to Avery, the psychologically troubled son of a former Death Eater; clearly something was out of place in the boy's head, and was prompting him to behave in an abnormal way. But still – like his father before him, he was already offending the other students, already pridefully dealing with conflicts on his own, already arrogantly placing himself above the level of his classmates. For sure, the instigator in all of these incidences was reportedly Draco Malfoy, but still – it takes two. Rowland claimed the boy was 'too fine' – but perhaps he was really fine. Perhaps the mask wasn't a mask, and the boy was just shallow in character.

So, he stored away the information for later consideration, but remained unworried.

Even Poppy's confrontation, her suggestions that the boy might have shown physical evidence of mistreatment or at least bullying, did little to sway his opinion, especially after speaking with the Headmaster, who had held what appeared to be a firm belief that everything was fine, and that if it was not, that fact would reveal itself in due time.

He had to agree. And that – _that_ was his first misstep. The conviction that inaction was the correct action; that it would be best to leave well enough alone.

The conviction was solidified with time.

Potter's social standing improved from recluse to well-liked, even popular student, and he found his concern replaced by disdain. The boy was socially inept, but hid his shortcomings with well-practised manipulations, which easily endeared him to his teachers and classmates. It irritated him beyond belief that despite Potter's many psychological defects, he had friends and many friendly acquaintances and received excellent grades. Even he couldn't justify giving the boy poor marks.

Potter's dedication to Potions was astounding, given that he gave the boy no reasonable opportunity to enjoy the subject. He suspected that the boy wasn't really that interested in the curriculum itself – he was just intent on impressing him. Very intent. And were it any other student, he would have succeeded. The boy's dedication _was_ impressive, and his performance in class was more than satisfactory. Still, that didn't stop him from embarrassing the boy and showing him utter dislike and disdain every time the opportunity presented itself. The boy, however, took it in stride, and was still fixated on winning his approval. He should have questioned why the boy was so unfazed by his contempt, constant verbal assaults, and generally negative reactions to everything he did.

But he didn't.

Over the following two years, his observations of Potter had yielded interesting results. Results that should have been more concerning than they were. Results that should have warranted more than regular complaints to the Headmaster about the boy's presumably ill character. He recognized a mask when he saw one, and Harry Potter wore several. Time had shown that the boy liked to be able to exert some degree of control over his surroundings, and he had proven himself an effective manipulator, so it made sense that he would put on masks for the world to see. Just another result of his arrogance and obsessiveness, or whatever combination of the above.

And that was it.

Clearly the boy wasn't normal. Clearly there was something off about him. But the boy was an orphan, raised by muggles, pointlessly famous, and the victim of two murder attempts by one of the darkest wizards to ever live. And even after all that, he seemed to manage himself just fine, so he really didn't have anything to worry about, right?

He should have known that it was never that simple.

He had been reluctant to believe it, but the evidence was undeniable – Harry Potter was innocent of many of the crimes of personality he convicted him of, and more shockingly, was a victim of neglect and abuse.

His social ineptness was a result of a lack of friends and positive social interactions throughout his childhood. Further investigation proved that not only was Potter disliked by his family; he was shunned by his neighbours, teachers, and classmates as well, who were all convinced that there was something wrong with him, that something in him had 'gone bad'.

His ability to create and don many masks came from the necessity of hiding who he was and what he could do, and keeping his weaknesses and vulnerabilities far from prying, untrustworthy eyes. They were further made a necessity because the boy had an underdeveloped sense of self, which he couldn't afford to make public.

His desire to carefully control and manipulate his interactions with others stemmed from the lack of control and freedom he felt in his own home, and his desperation for approval arose from the fact that no matter what he did, he was never able to glean more than hatred and disgust from his relatives.

It was all revoltingly familiar. The boy was him, twenty years ago. Unloved, unwanted, and thrust into a world unfamiliar and dangerous. At least he'd had Lily – Potter had had to start from scratch.

And if he reflected on it and forcibly freed himself of bias, he would have to admit that the boy had done well, and appeared to be handling himself satisfactorily even after the tumultuousness of the last few months. The boy didn't want to talk, which suited him just fine, but as he already noted...he _did_ find himself concerned. Especially as Black's impending release date grew nearer and nearer.

Harry Potter needed consistency and calm. Harry Potter needed a firm but gentle hand to guide him through adolescence. Harry Potter needed...help, and he genuinely doubted that Black would be able to give him any of that. Everyone seemed to believe that their task ended with removing Potter from his abusive relatives, but Severus knew better. He was self aware enough to recognize that the damage inflicted on him during his childhood did not disappear – it had shaped who he was, and left scars that he still carried. He wasn't blind. He knew that the damage wasn't purely external, and that removing the cause didn't remove the damage itself. He knew that Potter would still suffer, and so far, no one seemed to acknowledge that.

No one except him.

Throughout his confession and the drama that followed, Potter refused to play the victim. But did no one really see past that? Surely if he covered up the abuse successfully for years, he could cover up the full extent of the harm it did.

If they did, no one was doing anything about it. Harry Potter had received no assessment from a mind-healer, no interference from the Ministry besides one superficial meeting with a social worker. He was due to be released into the custody of a man who could barely be trusted to take care of himself, and then the case would be closed. No one cared.

And for some reason...he found himself to be the only one concerned. He could scarcely believe it, but he was truly concerned about Potter's fate. Perhaps it was because of Lily's eyes - which were so often far too blank and distant. Perhaps it was because now, he could hear the soft tones of Lily's voice in the boy's words. Perhaps it was because he saw too much of himself in the boy. Perhaps it was because he wished someone had done the same for him. Perhaps -

"Sir?"

He blinked, eyes travelling to the puzzled looking boy – who, god damn it, still looked far too much like James Potter – sitting across from him.

"Yes, Potter?"

"You haven't taken a bite in over three minutes," the boy said cautiously, as though expecting to be vehemently rebuked for speaking. Not an unreasonable assumption given their past interactions.

"I was merely...distracted."

Harry Potter nodded mutely, and the dinner table once again descended into silence.

* * *

It was 11:59 am on July 1st, 1994, and Severus was idly making his way out of his laboratory, feeling ready for his customary midday soup and sandwich. When he emerged from the basement, he found Potter working at the kitchen table, as usual, but this time, it wasn't his Ancient Runes homework splayed across the stained oak surface.

Marginally curious, he peered over the boy's shoulder, and was immensely surprised with what he saw.

Arrays. And not simple arrays either – complex graphs of arithmantic functions, geometrical analysis, and intricate patterns of runes. The boy was spell-crafting.

"Crafting your first spell?" he drawled.

The boy started and whipped his head around, staring at him in shock for a moment, before relaxing.

"Second, actually."

His eyebrows rose. Now that _was_ surprising. He found himself...modestly intrigued. "Oh? And what was the first one?"

" _Magnes Imbuo,_ " the boy said cautiously.

His eyebrows rose even higher. "A magnetization spell?"

The boy nodded.

Very well, then - now he was definitely fascinated. Spells utilizing magnetization and electricity were rare, mostly because much effort needed to be exerted in crafting and executing them – few felt the results were worth it. There were several theories as to why this was the case, but the most common explanation in contemporary literature was that spell-casting actually emitted an energy field that itself had electromagnetic properties, again enforcing the view that spells manipulating this energy field were too delicate to be useful. "And what application would such a spell have that a...sticking charm, for instance, couldn't achieve?"

The boy's green eyes sparkled. "An object doesn't need to be in contact with the magnetized object to get stuck to it. I could cast it on a tree, for instance, and everything metal within a certain radius would be attracted to the tree. The spell can last for up to five minutes."

"Combat, then?"

The boy nodded avidly. "It can yield...interesting results," he said with some mischief in his voice – a tone all too familiar. He stifled the distaste that rose up inside of him.

"You have tested it, then?"

"Extensively."

So Potter had managed to create, fine-tune, and test his own spell. Even given the boy's track record, that _was..._ impressive.

"And this one?"

"This one is more difficult – it's a static charm."

"As in...static electricity?" he clarified.

"Yes, exactly, sir. I have to figure out a way to cast it on two things at once, though...I haven't had much luck. The physics equations don't work well with my theoretical understanding of applied arithmancy."

"Have you considered using a rebounding subarray?" he asked reflexively, his mind involuntarily rifling through the techniques he would experiment with for crafting such a spell.

The boy blinked. "I...um...am not sure what that is."

He paused, and then, coming to a swift and possibly regrettable decision, raised an eyebrow. "Well, we can't have that, can we?" he said, pulling up a chair.

Potter stared at him in shock. He really _did_ never tire of that.

"I'm afraid lunch will have to wait, Potter. This takes precedence. And close your mouth – you look like an imbecile."

"Yes sir!"

* * *

They had begun a new routine.

Every morning, he and Potter would have their silent breakfast as usual. Following that, however, they would both retreat to his laboratory where Potter would act as his personal assistant.

Two days after they had begun to actually acknowledge each other's presence properly, Potter had asked him about his research during lunch. Deciding on a whim to indulge the boy, he had begun to explain the variant of the blood-replenishing potion he had been concocting (designed for flushing out magical infections), and upon watching Potter's avid attention as he went on about the details, had the brilliant idea to have the boy perform some of the mundane, irritating tasks that were hindering his daily progress. Stripping black swallowtail wings. Crushing elderberries. Grinding Paragula scales. That sort of thing.

The boy readily agreed, and soon, they had decided on spending their mornings working in his potions laboratory. They still spoke to each other only sparsely, but Potter seemed to enjoy himself well enough, and voraciously consumed any explanation he gave of what they were doing and why they were doing it. He got the distinct impression that the boy, while still not all that enthralled by the theory of medical potion-making, was merely relishing the attention and implicit approval being directed his way. It occurred to him more than once that Potter might simply be craving a _job_ or a _purpose –_ a reason to be there...and Severus found himself oddly willing to oblige. After all, he got free labour out of it. That was it, really. He certainly didn't feel any relief in the visible elevating Potter's mood. Not at all.

Lunches were no longer spent in silence. While constructing sandwiches and in between bites, they would converse in curt, somewhat stilted sentences, mostly on the subject of spell-crafting. After that fateful and, in hindsight, somewhat regrettable decision to strike up a conversation with Potter on the subject of his spell-crafting endeavours, the boy seemed to have arrived at the conclusion that he was, at least somewhat, amenable to teaching him; at the very least, he had decided that pestering him for information was worth risking his, at best, impatience, and, at worst, wrath. Potter's tone of voice never ceased to be cautious and polite, but he was decidedly more verbal, now that the proverbial ice was broken; he would not go so far as to say the boy was _talkative,_ but he would regularly make abrupt inquiries about arrays and runes and spell-crafting techniques, along with the occasional idle question concerning his own experiences with the intricate art. More than once he found himself in a foul mood after an unsuccessful morning in the laboratory, and as a result ignored Potter's quiet questions, which the boy didn't seem to mind at all; however, he found that he was, shockingly, prone to indulging the boy. As much as he despised his job, he _was_ an educator by trade – he supposed that, over the years, his job description might have rubbed off on him, if only slightly.

Their conversations remained short and curtly efficient, however, and they still finished their respective meals quickly, after which he would clear the table with a wave of his wand, leaving Potter with enough space to splay his notes all over the stained oak table, while he retreated to his laboratory. He would hear the door open and close around 3 pm every day, when Potter left for his daily walk - he'd soon gotten annoyed by the boy's monotonous requests to leave - and he would return around 6 pm to eat dinner, which was usually still spent in silence.

It was no longer awkward, though, he found. Both he and Potter were visibly relieved when it had settled in that neither of them were required to say anything.

All in all, it was a...pleasant schedule, which suited them both quite well. Indeed, he found himself not minding the company at all, and on occasion, he found himself thinking that he might have actually grown to appreciate Potter's presence, which he'd never admit to anyone.

It was strange, the sensation of not...well, utterly loathing Potter. If he were entirely honest with himself, he doubted that he had every truly loathed _Potter_. He had hated the idea of him, the concept of Harry Potter, the product of James Potter and Lily Evans, even existing, but the boy himself...well, he would probably never _like_ the boy – he'd probably never like anyone – but he was in all honesty more tolerable than the majority of the remainder of the human race; certainly more tolerable than most of his dunderheaded classmates. A part of him knew this was because he had finally witnessed just how much of Lily Evans lived on in her son...but to fully admit this...was not something he was willing to do. So the boy was tolerable, and that was all.

However, the boy was also his responsibility, which he was certainly not going to fail, because failing wasn't something Severus Snape _did._ Not anymore. And that was why, perhaps, he still found himself somewhat concerned about the boy, despite the fact that he no longer had the presence equivalent to that of a common house spider – it had occurred to him more than a few times now that for all he knew, he might one day wake up and find Potter hanging by the neck from one of the rafters. He doubted that he'd know if Potter were in any real turmoil or danger, seeing as the boy was so eternally pleased and satisfied - in appearance at least. There were times when he found the boy distracted, looking troubled, but usually, he was just...flat. For the longest time, he had no idea what Potter was thinking, and this _not knowing_ was not something his mind could simply overlook. And for once in his life, he had no idea how to approach the problem. Fortunately (or possibly unfortunately), the problem eventually approached him.

"I like it here," Potter said suddenly at dinner on July 7th.

He looked up from his mashed potatoes at that, unable to completely hide his surprise.

"Indeed?"

The boy nodded slowly. "You have a lovely home, Professor Snape."

He couldn't help it – he scoffed a bit at that...despite the fact that the statement made his stomach squirm. He didn't know why.

"No, really, I have...really enjoyed my time here," the boy said frankly, "Thank you."

He stared at Potter for a long moment. This might be an ideal time to alleviate some of his concerns, he couldn't help but muse – Potter was obviously in a talkative mood.

"I am...relieved to hear that," he reluctantly admitted, causing the boy visible surprise. He paused, not quite knowing how to go about the task of of gauging the boy's well-being, while being shaken by the lack of confidence he felt in achieving this task. He sighed. Perhaps, with Potter, direct was best. "I am compelled to ask, Potter...have you been...well?" He was painfully aware of how stilted and awkward the question sounded.

"Well, sir?"

He sighed, this time in annoyance. "It has been an...eventful few months for you."

Understanding dawned on the boy, and he nodded quickly. "I don't have to return to the Dursleys, sir. I'm very pleased," he said matter-of-factly.

"Indeed," he returned blandly, "But that is not quite what I meant."

The boy only blinked at him, looking quite befuddled.

He rolled his eyes. Apparently he needed to be even more direct; might as well take the plunge. "Potter, you've gone from stubbornly hiding your abuse at the hands of your relatives from your teachers and classmates to having it splayed across the front page of the Daily Prophet. I highly doubt 'very pleased' fully describes your emotional state."

The boy gaped for a moment, before pulling himself together. "I dealt with that," he began delicately.

Of course the boy was going to make this difficult. Perhaps he would need to take this even further. "You manoeuvred yourself out of a precarious publicity fiasco, Potter, but do you honestly believe me foolish enough to be convinced that that was the end of it for you?" He narrowed his eyes at the boy, who had stiffened. " _Everyone_ knows the secret you've gone to great lengths to keep for years. Even someone as inept as you wouldn't remain _unaffected. '_ Very pleased', _"_ he scoffed.

"That's not really any of your concern, sir," Potter said quietly, a little petulantly.

A reaction. That was a step forward. "Ah, then, whose concern do you believe it to be, Potter?"

"My own," the boy said, evidently lacking the self-control to keep a sharp edge out of his voice.

He scoffed at him again – clearly the boy reacted at least marginally to having his personal competence and strength of character questioned. "You're thirteen years old, Potter, you're not yet _qualified_ to have your own concerns."

The boy's knuckles had gone white as he gripped his fork in his right hand. "Sir," the now quite irate child said tightly, "I'm fine."

" _Do not lie to me,"_ he hissed, starting to become frustrated. He couldn't help himself – his responsibilities demanded that he ensure Potter's well being – but that didn't mean he had the patience to put up with the child's petulant misdirections. "Your attempts to disguise your obvious weaknesses are foolish, and do nothing more than indicate that you are, in fact, an incompetent, ungrateful child."

For a moment, the indignant boy's face grew closed off, nearly fading to a blank slate...before a fire was lit in his eyes and his lips twitched. "What do you want me to say, sir?" the boy said quietly, unable to disguise the venom in his voice; indeed, the words just seemed to slip out like hot oil. "Everyone...they're so focused on the cupboard, being locked away, going without food, Dudley's bullying, when really, that's not it at all...but you understand, don't you, sir?"

"Understand what, Potter?" he bit out impatiently, feeling quite displeased by the boy's tone, the ire in his voice suitably disguising the unease that he suddenly felt trickling down his spine. This was the first time he'd successfully gotten a rise out of Potter – and he could not help but wonder if the consequences might end up being...less than desirable.

Seemingly encouraged by his belligerent reaction in a conflict-seeking fashion he would have never previously attributed to the boy, he continued darkly, "This is your father's house, isn't it, sir? In the middle of a muggle neighbourhood – I've explored the whole thing, no wizards around here – he was a muggle, right? Snape, it's a _muggle_ name. You lived here, with him, but you weren't a _normal_ family, were you? I've been to normal families' houses. They're warm, lived in. There's a television or a radio, and the walls are plastered with pictures. But there were never any pictures here – the paint is old, but untouched; nothing's ever been hung up. I said I like it here, and that's because it's easy – it's empty, there's nothing; it's easy to live in for me, because I like the nothing."

"Potter," he said warningly, feeling his limbs growing stiff, but Potter just kept talking, unimpeded by his ire.

"You hated me sir, _hated_ me, and then you discover what happened at the Dursleys', and suddenly you care. Suddenly you offer me help, a home. It occurred to me, it occurred to me that it's pity, but it's not, is it? You don't have pity to spare for anyone. No – it's empathy, empathy because the same thing happened to you. Because your father _hated_ magic and he took it out on you."

"Potter, that is _enough._ "

The ungrateful brat was clearly trying to push his buttons, but he would _not_ succeed. He would _not._ Despite the finality of his warning, though, the boy kept on talking, words tumbling out at an incredible rate.

"I found broken glass, you know, from liquor bottles, they were in my room, his old room, the master bedroom – the bedroom you couldn't bear to move into after he was gone. He was a drinker, right? Angry, right? Don't think I didn't notice, the little things, the small damages you didn't bother to repair, because they were so common – you didn't even notice them. He hurt you, didn't he? And that's why you care, because you know what it's like to be hurt, you understand -"

"SILENCE!" he bellowed as he slammed his hand down on the table, unable to restrain himself, but Potter didn't listen.

"- that it's not the pain, or even the fear that really hurts you. It's not what _they_ do to you – it's what you put _yourself_ though. It's knowing that you're alone. That if things get worse...there's no one to go to. You're on your own." The boy's words had slowed and his tone had fallen to a low, hoarse, compelling sound that commanded silence. "It's the knowing. The wondering if it's worth it, the knowledge that it might have been better had you never been born; that it might be better that you were weaker than you already were, that it might be better if you just let them end you. That poisonous hope that it would be better on the other side. That none of it's worth it. And that feeling, it never leaves, does it? Even after all these years, it stays with you. And that's how you know I'm not fine. Because you know that it doesn't go away. Because you know it will never be fine. You know things will never get better."

The insolent, ungrateful brat – and he here he thought Potter was being tolerable, decent. Clearly, the boy wanted him angry, and he had succeeded; he was furious, absolutely furious; his mind was nearly blank with rage. But then – he saw it: Lily's eyes, no longer ablaze with a vicious fire. No, they were glassy and distant and pained and defeated and just _so unlike her_.

The anger drained away, and he was left...understanding.

Yes, he understood – he understood far too well. He remembered – his vile, drunken father and his sickly, useless mother. Every night his father had too much to drink, he wondered if that would be the night he cracked; if that would be the night everything went to hell. He'd lie in his bed, planning – what would he do if he heard his mother screaming? What would he do if his father started banging on his door, a broken bottle in hand? Nothing, nowhere. The cuts, the bruises the fear – it was nothing compared to the despair, the loneliness. The feeling – he'd forgotten it; he had forced it to the farthest, darkest reaches of his mind. But now a mere child managed to bring it back.

Damn it. Damn it all. He hated Potter. He hated children. He hated people and the memories of them. Damn it all.

"Get out of my sight," he whispered harshly, and the boy did just that, fork clattering to the ground as he ran.

* * *

He knocked three times on Potter's bedroom door.

"Potter?" he called, carefully controlling his voice.

He heard shuffling from inside, and a moment later, the door cracked open to reveal the boy, still dressed in the clothes he'd been in the night before, eyes red, and looking like he hadn't slept much, if at all.

Neither had he, admittedly.

The boy stared at him wordlessly, eyes dull.

He hesitated, before saying gruffly, "Those black swallowtail wings aren't stripping themselves."

The boy's eyes widened gradually, until they were unnaturally stretched open, and it would have been comical, did they not look so bloodshot and weary.

He stared at the boy for a long moment, watching as Potter's – Lily's – eyes started to come back to life, vivid and green. Something deep inside him twisted, and he nearly coughed out a sob, seeing the dead look in Lily's eyes being washed away. It didn't belong there. The pain, the bitterness – not in Lily's eyes.

"It does get better," he said quietly.

"Yes sir."

* * *

And thus it begins. Now...reveal to me your hopes and dreams and deepest desires, and I will feed off your sentiments and transform myself into a creature of great power and bring the world to its knees.

Or, you know, just let me know what you thought about the chapter. Either one.


	2. A New Beginning

**Disclaimer:** *sniffle*

 **AN:** Hey guys - so, sorry for the four week break...I took a holiday? Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! Belated, of course. In all seriousness, though, I had a super stressful holiday and I'm kind of in the middle of some...difficult times, so please forgive me if my posting is a little inconsistent; I'll try to keep up, but I'm doubtful that that will happen.

TL;DR - I'll try to post regularly, but no promises. Either way, here's a nice long chapter, and thank you for your patience.

* * *

 **Chapter 2: A New Beginning**

He was standing in a field of sunflowers under a sun-stained blue sky. They glimmered like polished gold, albeit with the softness of an autumn dawn, shivering as a ghostly wind swept through them; they were like little creatures of their own, just as alive as him - maybe sentient, even - dancing merrily to no music. And then they weren't.

The yellow petals shriveled to a sickly brown, and then to black, while the sky was drowned in a black ink, erasing the blue and obstructing the sun with a layer of dark water. And as the soundless wind slowly died away, the petals and leaves drifted to the black ground, and the stems of the flowers wilted into nothing, leaving him in a vast expanse of black. A black that just seemed...

"Dead."

The single syllable echoed, vague and ethereal, all around him, but he somehow immediately knew the point of origin. He turned to greet it, to find _her_ standing there – his mother, Lily Potter, emerald eyes shimmering kindly, red hair vibrant and burning like fire against the endless black engulfing them. She stood there, a gentle smile on her face, her radiance accentuated by the pretty dress she wore; a white summer dress covered in sunflowers – the very sunflowers, he knew, that had wilted just moments ago.

"Mum..."

"Harry."

He paused, taking in the sight of her, struck by this strange compulsion in the back of his mind to memorize every facet of her presence; but as moments ticked by he couldn't help but be drawn to the sunflowers, which seemed to have resumed their dance, shifting eerily over the white fabric engulfing them.

"Why do they always die?"

His mother offered him a smile imbued with what looked like something between regret and pity. "Who makes the flowers grow, Harry?"

He froze for a moment, not having expected the question, despite the nagging feeling inside him that told him that that was not the first time it had been asked to him.

"Um...photosynthesis?"

His mother laughed softly. "Not what, _who_."

"I...uh..." he stammered, "No one?" He knew that wasn't the answer she was looking for.

His mother's lips twitched. "Be more imaginative...more magical, more...primitive."

"...God?"

"That's right, and there are no gods."

"There is only death."

His mother's smile grew.

"But I don't know what that means."

"Yes you do, Harry – there's no plainer way of saying it."

"So does it mean that there's nothing? That death is the end? That when you die I'll never see you again?"

Again, that sad smile overtook Lily's Potter's face, and Harry felt his stomach squirm at the visibly pained expression.

"You're over thinking things again, sweetheart."

His mother knew him so well.

"Take a deep breath and give it another try."

He obeyed, sucking in the thin air of the black expanse, feeling vaguely annoyed; he'd already tried that -

He exhaled.

There are no gods. There is only death.

"I had a dream like this last night. All the flowers died," he suddenly recalled, his mind suddenly overwhelmed by the vague sense of deja vu, the echo of the memory.

"And then what happened?" his mother asked him softly.

"I...I don't remember."

His mother nodded thoughtfully. "And was I in this dream?"

"I...yeah, I think so. I remember talking to you...I think."

His mother's gaze sharpened, betraying her fascination. "What did we talk about?"

"I...don't remember."

Again, her smile twisted with that pained expression. "Do you dream of me often, Harry?"

Harry nodded slowly. "Lately, I think I have. I can't remember...I mean I can, but it just sort of...slips away. I wish it didn't. I wish -" his breath caught in his throat and he felt his jaw tremor, and he just then remembered that his mother was actually...dead. "I just miss you."

His mother's emerald green eyes were wide as they stared lovingly at him, shrouded with tears. "Oh, Harry, I miss you too. Your father and I, we love you so much. We're so, so proud. You know that, don't you?" She paused, the tears ceasing as her eyes grew distant. "Do you know how much I love you, Harry?"

He shook his head mutely.

"Yes you do," Lily Potter said firmly, and suddenly her expression changed – it was unreadable, but not blank. "I died for you. I let _him_ kill me - I didn't even try to put up a fight; I used my last breath to beg for your life. My pride, my magic, my life - I gave them all up for you."

She was right in front of him now, and she pulled him into a warm embrace.

"But it's alright, sweetheart. You are so, so loved. We are so proud of who you've become – my baby boy, all grown up."

All the breath escaped Harry's chest, and he felt tears gathering in his eyes, at first because of the relief, the pure joy that radiated through him at those words that he had always longed to hear, those words he never expected to hear...and then because of the sharp, cold pain in his chest. It started as an ache, but then his brain caught up with the trauma, and the pain fluttered outward with a ripping sensation.

"But it's time to come home now."

Lily Potter released him, and retreated a step back – the action revealing a sickeningly familiar stainless steel kitchen knife, embedded in his chest.

His eyes widened at the sight, and for a moment he forgot to breathe, as the pain pulsed through his entire body; then, as hot tears prickled his eyes, he gasped, and met his mother's eyes, which were still glimmering in the dark, immune to the agony and fear radiating from his own green replicas.

"I'm afraid it's game over, Harry."

A moment later, he was hunched over in his pyjamas, the sheets Professor Snape had covered his late father's bed in gripped tightly in his hands.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

 _What is it_ this _time?_

Harry winced at the incredibly unimpressed tone in Tom's voice.

"...just startled myself."

 _That is precisely what you said last night, and the night before, and the night before that._

"And the night before that," Harry could not help by comment cheekily, despite the unease boiling in his stomach. Of course, he was rewarded by a brief burst of pain in his forehead, leaving him feeling momentarily irritated, until he remembered that he deserved it.

But as those thoughts ebbed away, he could not help but muse...Tom was right; every night, without fail, he would wake up in a panic, beset by the terrible sensation of being stabbed in the chest by his dead mother.

It all started when he left Number 4 Privet Drive – oh the disgust he felt at the fact that he still had to even think the name – when he stood in the doorway of the bathroom where he had once...

Tried to kill himself.

Shame. Fear.

No one could ever know.

As he'd stood there, a memory had engulfed him; at first, it was a familiar memory, a memory that haunted him no matter how hard he tried to bury it. But then it changed, and he was faced with this strange vision of a black limbo between life and death, where he met his mother...and then...strange things happened. Really strange things.

Apparently, Tom hadn't woken up on his own. Apparently, his mother wanted Tom watching over him. Apparently, Tom was supposed to help him follow a rule...the first rule of a mysterious game.

Apparently he had to find three things. Whatever they were.

At first, it hadn't even registered – the memory had returned and then left as quickly as it had come, leaving him in little more than a fuzzy daze. But then, later that night, as he sat down in the bathtub to bathe himself - inexplicably opposed to showering - it happened again; he lay back in the water and closed his eyes, but had emerged a moment later, gasping and terrified. And this time the memory stayed with him.

And attacked him every night in his dreams.

They wouldn't stop. It didn't matter what he tried, and he _did_ try.

He tried reading fiction before he went to sleep, falling asleep listening to music; he'd even written a letter to Hermione, asking if she had any suggestions for tempering nightmares.

 _'Some muggle psychologists believe that our dreams help us process information we could not process while we're awake. If you're having nightmares, Harry, you probably have some unresolved psychological issues you need to work through. You know I'm always here to talk, right? Anything you need...'_

She was right, of course, and he knew exactly what his unresolved psychological issues were.

His mother. He had a memory of his mother. One that wasn't of her dying at the hands of his best friend. He had a memory of his mother.

Someone like his mother.

Something like his mother.

Something that wanted him alive. Something that made him afraid of death. Something he'd forgotten. Or had been made to forget.

His memories of that day had been clear, before all of this. Little Harry Potter, alone and unloved, tired of living before he'd ever lived; little Harry Potter, enthralled and consumed by the hope that his mum and dad were waiting for him, waiting to show him how much they loved him; enchanted by the idea of heaven...and of death.

It was so simple, at the time; he never once doubted himself. He never once faltered in his delusion; because he was just a child – it was all he knew. He never thought twice – until he went through with it. It was then that he truly came to understand the nature of life and death and was brutally enlightened to the human instinct for self-preservation; it was that moment that marked his departure from the conviction and innocence and peaceful being and knowing of childhood...at least, that was what his memory had told him. His survival instinct kicked in, that was all.

But now he didn't know anymore.

He still didn't know what had happened. Why the memory came and why it left. After he'd finished his bath and lain down on his new temporary bed, he'd considered this closely, and come to the conclusion that it was a strange dream, it had to be - it was his overactive and adrenaline-soaked mind playing tricks on him, excited by the fact that he was leaving Number 4 Privet Drive forever. He dismissed it.

But then the dreams started, and he was forced to reconsider, and think more closely about this strange vision that had clearly affected him more than anything in recent memory had.

 _Why_ would his mind play a trick like that? Why would he subconsciously conceive of such a fantasy? How could something so strange be entirely spontaneous?

Every night he was ferried away to a version of that dream or memory (he still didn't know which), where he would converse with his mother. Some nights he would ask her about the dream-memory – was it real? What was the game? Why did she want him to wake Tom – the man who murdered her? Other nights they would talk about...well, things. Life, death, magic, morality. And still other times he would go into it all knowing it was a dream, and would refuse to take part. Every time he ended up with a knife in his chest – the same knife he had apparently thrust into Tom's barely beating heart eight years prior.

Did Tom even have a heart?

Did that knife ever even exist?

He wasn't sure what was real anymore – which memories were genuine, which were contrived. And how could he know – everything seemed equally implausible. Was he dreaming about a memory, or was he dreaming about a dream his mind had invented groundlessly? He didn't know.

He didn't know.

And he didn't know what to do. He couldn't sleep through the nights and he couldn't go to Tom about it – Tom just wouldn't understand. At least, something deep within him told him as much. Don't tell Tom. And he found himself obeying whatever was deep within him.

 _Should you continue to lose sleep over this brain malfunction your mental state will further deteriorate._

Harry sighed.

Tom used the word 'further', of course, because Harry's mental state had already deteriorated somewhat. Well, he said _somewhat..._

He'd been thinking far too much. Mostly about the Dursleys. The emergence of new memories had brought him back to his childhood, back to the hopeless days before he met Tom. He had no idea how to feel when he thought about himself, back then. He'd been so innocent, and kind, and good...he had been a better person back then. A simpler person, at least. But that didn't stop him from feeling revulsion when he thought about the boy he had been.

He didn't know what it was - the belief in his own inferiority, the acceptance of oppression, the pathetic meaninglessness of each day, his desire to be ordinary, to be a _muggle_ \- but whatever it was, it irked him. It made him sick. It made him want to erase it all. But despite how steadfastly he'd told himself that he would do just that - that he'd shove those memories in a cupboard and melt the key down into nothing - he knew deep down that that feat was beyond his capabilities. He was damaged. He was deficient. He was powerless.

No, he knew he wasn't powerless. He was far from powerless - Tom wouldn't tolerate powerlessness - but that fact didn't stop him from feeling that way.

He'd felt powerless before, of course, but it was different now - because he knew how it felt to be powerful. And it turns out that the nagging sensation of powerlessness was no longer met by acceptance as it once would have been; no, he couldn't accept it - so he lashed out at the first opportunity that presented itself.

Like a spoiled child.

He'd completely lost it the other night, and had started just...throwing it all off. All the feelings he didn't know he had, all the observations he'd made in passing, all the pain and helpless, desperate anger – he threw them all off...right onto Professor Snape.

He had been mortified and Tom had been furious.

They couldn't afford to make an enemy out of Professor Snape, he knew that; but the man just made it _so easy._ He had an advantage, of course; Tom had told him all about how the man had fallen in love with his mum, and how he hated his dad, and by extension, Harry, because of that. But more than that, he'd made observations of his own – Tom wasn't interested enough to provide much insight, and generally seemed to chalk the potion professor's unpleasant demeanour on jealousy and resentment...but Harry had always had the feeling that there was more to it than that, that the man's bitterness had to be more deeply rooted than that, and unlike Tom, he was compelled into further musings by this feeling. His Head of House's reaction to seeing Remus had confirmed it – his father and his friends had done something that had truly hurt Professor Snape, which worsened the blow when his mum chose his dad over Professor Snape. But still, there had to be more, he thought; the sheer amount of unhappiness in the Potions Professor had to go back further. After all, he didn't just dislike Harry and Remus – he seemed to dislike everybody.

It was when Harry had arrived at Spinner's End and observed the house and the neighbourhood that he found his answer. Professor Snape was just like him. Well, not _just_ like him, but he had grown up alone and unwanted, and that had hurt him; that had changed him. Harry had Tom, but who had Professor Snape had? And that was why Professor Snape was suddenly so...not nice, but in a way, kind. Not kind. Something else. It was the closest Professor Snape could get to empathy or kindness, he thought.

And instead of thanking the man, he'd used everything he learned against him, and had found this feeling of fleeting power and momentary satisfaction as he watched the Professor take a dose of his own medicine for once. He'd tried so hard to hurt and embarrass Harry so many times, and it felt so good to put him in his place, just once.

But it was only for a few moments. Then it was over.

It wasn't that Professor Snape didn't deserve it – he was a spiteful, bitter bully whose only capacity for empathy was directed to those he thought had suffered in the same way as him – but Harry had to wonder if that made it ok to act like...well, exactly the way the professor had accused him of being.

And suddenly he realized that it was nothing but a loss of control, and he felt weak again.

Tom, of course, agreed fervently.

He still didn't know why Professor Snape chose to _forgive him_ , and do it so immediately. The man had held a grudge on his father for twenty years, and he forgave Harry over a night? Harry didn't understand it. People change, yes, but not that quickly. Why wasn't Professor Snape punishing him? Why wasn't he being hit or locked up or put to boring, gruelling work, or _something?_ He didn't understand. He'd never been forgiven in his whole life. And he couldn't help but feel that he didn't deserve it. That he deserved some sort of retaliation.

But Professor Snape had done nothing. He'd given Harry another chance.

And Harry wasn't going to waste it.

Just as Professor Dumbledore had told him a few months back, waste not, want not.

He supposed that, in the end, it was a win-win for everyone. Harry was off the hook, Professor Snape got his assistant back, and Tom was satisfied that Harry had not alienated a potential ally.

And so everything went on as it had; the routine he and Professor Snape had established didn't change, and he was incredibly thankful for that. He truly did enjoy his time at Spinner's End – everything about it was tidy, orderly, and just...routine. Normalizing. Peaceful.

And now, he wasn't afraid anymore. He wasn't scared that he'd slip up and Professor Snape would change his mind and put him in foster care (because truth be told he had been exceedingly anxious about it). He was much more at ease, and he thought the professor probably noticed that, because there were no more attempts to ensure his well-being. They didn't talk. Hardly ever. And that suited Harry just fine. Talking was overrated, and he had Tom and their daily walks if he was ever lonely.

 _Are you even listening to me, you foolish child? This cannot go on._

Harry sighed. "I'm listening, Tom, I just don't know what I'm supposed to do about it."

There was a moment of silence.

 _They are nightmares, yes?_

Harry hesitated, finding himself surprised by the question, despite the fact that it was entirely obvious that yes, he was having nightmares. "That's right."

 _I see. And what is the nature of these nightmares?_

Harry frowned. "Why are you only asking this now?"

 _You had prolonged periods of nightmares as a child -_

He did? He didn't remember that.

 _\- and I initially thought these to be the same. But I grow doubtful. It has been nearly three weeks, and this seems excessive given the duration of past incidents._

Harry shifted in his bed, grimacing slightly - a part of him was flattered by the thought Tom had apparently put into this, but Tom's interest opened up the possibility that his friend would weasel the truth out of him. "Any theories?" he asked thinly.

 _It is possible they are visions of a kind. It is not inconceivable that you could have some innate talent in divination._

Harry scowled instinctively, not at all liking the idea.

 _But that theory rests on the nature of the dreams for confirmation. So I ask again, what is the nature of these nightmares?_

"I..." Harry suddenly felt his mouth dry up. He hated lying to Tom. "I don't remember. When I wake up I don't remember anything."

 _Likely not visions then. Fascinating._

No, not fascinating, Harry thought furiously - the last thing he wanted was for Tom to become _fascinated_.

 _There are ways of overcoming this obstacle,_ Tom continued to muse, _Potions, mind magic..._

Harry was starting to panic a little now.

 _However, that would take time and resources that we don't have. We must remove this weakness immediately before more damage is done._

"But how?" Harry asked, his voice a little strained.

 _The simplest solution is that you request that Snape brew you a dreamless sleep potion. He should be amenable._

"I can't just take a potion for the rest of my life," Harry observed.

 _...these things pass with time,_ Tom said with reluctant uncertainty, clearly trying to console him, and Harry felt warmth flood his chest; it was rare moments like this when he was reminded that Tom really _did_ care for him.

Smiling slightly, he lay back onto his pillow and closed his eyes, feeling marginally comforted. After all, Tom was always right.

* * *

It was a beautiful July morning, as any proper July morning ought to be. Really, what was the point of July if it didn't usher in each morning with a soft golden glow and crisp warmth that could only be described as vivid and eager? Harry would often ask himself this when July mornings failed to live up to this expectation, as they were wont to do in the British Isles.

The St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, of course, was charmed to remain at precisely twenty-one degrees Celsius no matter how warm or cold the air outside was, but that did not disguise the sun's shimmering shadow, which was eagerly flooding through the windows, completely oblivious to the sorry scene on which it was shining.

Professor Snape and Sirius were still glaring at each other.

"The boy's belongings have been shrunk and are currently residing in his pocket. I trust that even after having your mind addled by dementors for thirteen years you're _at least_ competent enough to enlarge them, _Black?_ "

"What do you think, _Snivellus?_ "

"If you had even a fraction of a brain you would know what _I_ think, _Black,"_ Professor Snape sneered.

"And why would I want to know what goes on in that twisted, pathetic -"

 _Insufferable children,_ Tom groused, very displeased with the amount of time they'd wasted listening to Sirius and Professor Snape trade insults.

Harry sighed. "Thank you very much, Professor Snape, for shrinking my belongings for me, and for your hospitality these last three weeks. I really, really appreciated it."

Professor Snape's disdainful gaze drifted away from Sirius's tense form, and he raised an eyebrow. "You already said that, Potter."

Harry shrugged. "I felt I had to make up for Sirius's rudeness...again."

"Hey! Whose side are you on anyway?"

 _You'd probably desire to remain oblivious of that fact,_ Tom commented dryly.

Harry had to agree.

Professor Snape smirked, before turning to Harry, a stern look on his face. "You recall our conversation about the floo network, Potter?"

As it turned out, Professor Snape had done more than forgive him; the professor approached him the day before Sirius was to take guardianship of him, a solemn look on his face. He had frankly relayed his belief that Sirius might not turn out to be a suitable guardian, and that should Harry ever need a 'competent adult' to stay with, he was to floo over to Professor Snape's house, where he would, apparently, still have a bed and three square meals a day waiting for him.

Suffice it to say, Harry was stunned and incredibly touched. Professor Snape had merely waved away his gratitude as usual, citing his 'responsibility as his Head of House' as justification for his actions. Harry knew better, but wasn't about to say so.

"Yes sir."

"Excellent," the man said blandly. "I will take my leave then."

And with that, the man turned on his heel and swept away, black robes billowing behind him.

"Git," Sirius said, scowling.

Harry sighed exasperatedly. "He's not a git, Sirius, he's just...serious."

Sirius blinked at him owlishly for a moment, before bursting out laughing. "D-did...you just make a 'Sirius' joke?"

Harry looked at him defensively. "And if I did?"

 _You should be ashamed of yourself._

"Then I'd say there's hope for you yet, kiddo," Sirius said cheerily, ruffling his hair. "Now, how about we high-tail it out of this hell-hole."

Harry looked around at Sirius's very pleasant looking hospital room, shrugging. "Where are we going?"

Here, Sirius paused, grimacing. "My parents' house. It's been a while since anyone's lived there, but there should be a house elf keeping things...livable."

Harry smiled brightly, pleased that they would, in fact, be living in a place that was no doubt in possession of a wide variety of dark arts tomes. "Brilliant. Where is it?"

"Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London," Sirius said, a smile back on his face, clearly pleased by Harry's positive reaction. "You ok with apparating?"

Harry hesitated. "Are you...allowed to apparate?"

Sirius grinned. "I make my own rules."

Harry grimaced, trying to convey just how unimpressed he was with the sentiment.

Sirius laughed at him. "I kid, I kid. Retook all my tests and everything."

Harry's grimace turned into a smile, relieved. "Then yes, I'm perfectly ok with apparating."

Sirius took his arm. "Hold on tight."

One very uncomfortable moment later, Harry found himself standing in a dark entrance way, breathing in musty, odd-smelling air that couldn't possibly be healthy to inhale.

For a moment, it was impossible to see anything, until Sirius said, _"Lumos."_

Harry had a split second to take in his surroundings – the entrance way was large and covered in dark, patterned wallpaper, and a dusty, cobwebbed, iron chandelier hung ominously overhead. On either side were two dark entrances, and in front of them was a narrow staircase, the walls covered in dozens of portraits -

And then the second was over.

A blood-curdling scream ripped through the silence of the abandoned house, and the moth-eaten velvet curtains surrounding one of the portraits flew open, revealing a life-sized portrait of an old woman in a black cap shrieking at the top of her lungs, spitting as she did, the yellowing skin of her face stretched taut over her angular bone structure. Almost immediately the other portraits on the walls woke up and started making a commotion as well.

"INTRUDER! INTRUDER!" the old woman screamed, "How dare you disturb the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black! KREACHER! INTRUDERS!"

Suddenly, a small, decrepit house elf popped into the room, a disproportionately large marble statue in hand, baring it threateningly.

 _This is ridiculous,_ Tom said in disbelief.

Nonetheless, Harry drew his wand, ready to throw up a shield and damn the consequences, when Sirius started yelling himself.

"SHUT UP YOU UGLY OLD HAG! AND KREACHER – DROP THAT BLOODY THING BEFORE YOU KILL SOMEONE!"

Everything fell silent, and Harry, who was slightly stunned, got a closer look at the house elf. Except for the filthy rag tied like a loincloth around its middle, it was completely naked. It looked very old; its skin seemed to be several times too big for it \and its bloodshot eyes were a watery gray, its fleshy nose large and snoutlike. It had a much more...inhuman, feral appearance than Dobby did.

 _That's it – Regulus Black's house elf._

Harry's heart leapt.

"Y-you," the old woman sputtered, in the meantime. Then she started yelling again, "Blood traitor! Scum! Shame of my flesh!"

"I said shut UP!" Sirius cried with equal vehemence.

 _Is there not a part of you that is grateful you never had to suffer through the malady that is family relations? I know I felt more fulfilled as a whole after I killed mine._

Harry really didn't know what to say to that.

Meanwhile, the woman on the wall paused, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "What are _you_ doing here? You're supposed to be in Azkaban."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "What do you care, you old hag?"

The woman looked outraged at Sirius's rude answer, and opened her mouth to start shrieking once again, before Harry interrupted.

"He was recently released, ma'am," Harry said quickly, "Cleared of all charges."

The woman's eyes narrowed. "And who are _you_?"

"That's my godson you horrid -"

"Harry Potter," Harry interrupted, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Black. And you as well, Kreacher."

Mrs. Black looked stunned into silence, but a moment later, started screeching again. "AGGHHHH! You DARE bring that Potter spawn in the house of my forefathers! You dare bring the product of that blood traitor and his mudblood whore into my house! You dare bring the child who slew our lord -"

 _No one_ slew _me_ , Tom spat out, and Harry's scar began to burn. _Senile old hag..._

Meanwhile, Kreacher's eyes had gone abnormally large (still, though, he had nothing on Dobby) before he started mumbling. "Is it true? Harry Potter? Kreacher can see the scar, it must be true, that's that boy who stopped the Dark Lord..."

While Harry stood, stunned at the unwanted attention he was being lavished with and the pain pulsing through his forehead, Sirius proved that he was, indeed, a man of action, and stomped over to the portrait, wrenching the curtains shut, which silenced Mrs. Black.

His godfather sighed in relief, while Kreacher was glowering nastily at the frazzled man.

"Mistress's traitorous son dares to silence the mistress in her own house..." he grumbled venomously.

Sirius, still angry, looked like he had something to say about that, so before he did so and incited a whole new conflict, Harry knelt down by Kreacher, who stopped short in his tirade at the sudden movement. "Now Kreacher, Sirius and I are going to be staying here from now on, and we need a place to sleep. Would you mind clearing out a couple of the bedrooms upstairs, please?" he asked kindly. Given the status of the entrance hall, he doubted the bedrooms were as livable as Sirius had hoped.

Kreacher narrowed his eyes. "The boy who stopped the dark lord asks Kreacher to obey him, and Kreacher wonders what mistress would -"

"Kreacher," Harry said more firmly, "If you don't do as I ask, Sirius will order you to do it."

The glower returned to Kreacher's face, and he backed off, beginning to waddle toward the stairs.

"Fix my old room up for me, and fix it properly. This place is filthy," Sirius ordered, ignoring Harry's reproving look, "And Harry gets Regulus's old room."

 _Excellent._

Harry suppressed a smile.

"And no tricks or underhanded sabotage, you hear me? You'll regret it later, you foul little beast," Sirius warned. "Now away with you."

Kreacher's glower grew even darker, if possible, before he turned away and began to stumble up the stairs, mumbling as he did.

"He's a person too," Harry said matter-of-factly. "You should treat him better. He's just old and senile."

Sirius rolled his eyes, and Harry could feel Tom basically doing the same. "Trust me, he's always been like that."

"If you say so -"

"Oh, I do."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Right. Should we...um..."

"I'll show you around," Sirius asserted.

Harry shrugged. "Sounds reasonable."

Cracking a slight smile, Sirius gestured to his right, where a narrow staircase led downward. "That's the kitchen, and the dining room's this way," he said, and led the way through dark passageway, lighting gas lamps with a swish of his wand as they went. Soon they found themselves in a large dining room, looking quite like a gothic parody of the Malfoys'.

The whole thing was covered in at least a quarter of a a centimetre of dust, and cobwebs covered the high, vaulted ceiling almost entirely. Wood was rotted and paint peeling, and Harry thought he might have seen a cockroach or two scuttle across the floor when they turned on the lights.

"Bloody hell," Sirius breathed, "What's that bloody elf been doing all these years?"

"Wallowing in loneliness?"

Sirius snorted, and then sighed. "Kreacher won't be very cooperative – it'll take ages to clean this up."

"Maybe not," Harry said thoughtfully. "Dobby!"

Crack!

"Master Harry Potter Sir!"

Tom made a sound of disgust.

Sirius blinked, staring down at the elf standing at their feet, who was making adoring eyes at Harry.

"Hello Dobby," Harry said cheerfully. "How's your vacation been?"

"Oh, splendid, sir. Dobby managed to find Master Harry's filthy muggles, sir. They was locked away, they was. Dobby made their socks go missing and their food go rotted. He played many tricks, sir, and the muggles thought they'd went mad."

Harry grinned. "Excellent work, Dobby. Did you do any travelling?"

 _Must you really?_

Dobby nodded avidly. "Dobby went to Paris, sir, and -" he stopped short, and looked up at Sirius blankly. "Sir?"

"You have a _house elf_?" Sirius asked incredulously.

Harry nodded. "I blackmailed Lucius Malfoy into giving him to me."

Dobby beamed at that.

"Did I not say anything about that?"

"No, but you will." He grinned wickedly, but then straightened his face as he placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, looking at him seriously. "As the handsomest and most daring of the Marauders, I must demand a thorough retelling of this tale - that's prime marauding right there."

 _Perhaps the man's humour isn't completely unrefined,_ Tom concluded, still sore over the man's careless use of his diary.

Harry nodded avidly, happy to oblige, and then looked down at Dobby. "Dobby, this is my godfather, Sirius Black."

Dobby gasped. "You are...Master Harry's godfather?"

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "I am."

Dobby burst into joyful tears, causing Sirius to gape. "Oh sir, oh sir! Dobby is so pleased, sir, that Master Harry can have a proper home, now, where Dobby can serve him properly! Dobby is so, so grateful to the great man who rescued Master Harry from his horrid muggles! Who did what Dobby could not! Oh sir, it pained Dobby so, to leave Master Harry with his filthy muggles, but no longer...Dobby is so, so pleased, sir. Dobby is so grateful!"

"Right...don't mention it," Sirius said slowly, bewildered.

Harry, used to Dobby's sudden bursts of emotion, only smiled. "Anyway, Dobby, I asked you here because we've found ourselves in a rather dire situation." He gestured at the ruined dining room around them. "Sirius used to live here, but that was a long time ago, and now it's not really suited to living in anymore. Do you think there's anything you can do about that?"

 _Of course there is, you foolish child. This is what it's been waiting for an entire year._

As Tom predicted, Dobby's eyes were filled with ecstasy at Harry's request. "Oh yes, sir! Gladly, sir! Dobby is so pleased to be of service, sir! Give Dobby a few hours, sir, and it will be done!"

Harry grinned. "Brilliant. We'll just...go somewhere for a few hours -" he looked at Sirius, who looked quite pleased at the prospect of leaving, and nodded "- and be back in the evening."

"Oh yes, sir! Of course, sir!"

As soon as Harry and Sirius left the Black Family residence, they were both compelled to dust themselves off, as they stared at the quiet muggle neighbourhood surrounding them. The streets were cobbled and the street lamps were dusty and old; oak trees lined the streets, and just across from Number 12 Grimmauld Place was a small playground. The street was fairly barren, but a few elderly muggles were ambling down the sidewalks.

"Can they see us?" Harry asked.

"Nope. The house is invisible – the muggles think the builders accidentally skipped 'Number 12'."

Harry nodded as they began to descend the front steps. "So, where to now?"

Sirius stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Let's go down to the main street and hail a cab -"

Harry frowned. "Why don't we just apparate again?"

Sirius shrugged. "James and I used to take cabs, before we were allowed to apparate."

"But...you can apparate now," Harry said slowly.

Sirius shrugged again, as he walked down the sidewalk. "I'd like to see London again." He looked over and grinned at Harry. "Come on, Harry – just one ride. Indulge me."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Fine. Where are we going?"

"Hmm, why don't we...let's hit up the record store."

"Record store?" Harry asked with a frown, "You mean...a muggle music store?"

"That's the one!"

"Why?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"Do you have any idea how many albums ACDC has put out since they locked me up?"

"Er, no..."

"Well, neither do I," Sirius said sourly.

"Um...ACDC..." Harry said confusedly. "I take it that's not a cleaning product?"

Sirius stopped for a moment to gape at him. "You poor, poor child."

"Whatever you say, Sirius."

* * *

The record store was...a confusing experience, for everyone involved. It was loud and it was very...well stocked, if the many columns of scattered CD cases was any indication. Either way, Harry would have been fine to wait in a corner until Sirius was done with his...ACDC, but it didn't quite turn out like that. When they entered the store, Sirius was shocked to learn that records weren't exactly a thing anymore, and while his godfather knew what a cassette tape was, he was unfamiliar with CDs.

"But they're so small! How do they _fit_ it all?"

"Um..."

In the end Harry didn't know enough to satisfy his godfather, so they started interrogating the shop attendant, who seemed a little put off and baffled by Sirius's questions.

"So how do they fit it in the gramophone?"

"The _what_?"

Harry sighed. "The technology you're familiar with is actually called a record player, Sirius -"

The shop attendant looked a bit baffled by the name.

" - and CDs are played by something else entirely."

Sirius gaped, and then looked at the shop attendant somewhat accusingly. "So everyone who listens to music had to buy something new to play their music?"

The shop attendant raised an eyebrow. "That's how technology works, mate."

Sirius pursed his lips. "Strange."

The shop keeper made a show of looking over Sirius's odd ensemble of trainers, a t-shirt, jeans, and old fashioned waistcoat and overcoat. "Strange indeed."

It was then that Harry managed to drag Sirius away from the unimpressed shop attendant.

"I say we split up," Sirius said after the boy wandered off.

Harry frowned. "Split up?"

"You know, you find your...CDs, and I find mine."

Harry blinked. "I don't know any bands, Sirius."

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Then find some."

So, instead of waiting in a corner, Harry began rifling through the piles of CD cases, occasionally peeking over the shelves to find Sirius examining random CDs.

It was interesting seeing the man in an uncontrolled environment, he decided - Sirius seemed to react actively to most things he encountered, and it seemed that his natural curiosity rivaled even Harry's and Tom's.

 _He's inquisitive,_ Tom mused pensively, _That could prove a problem._

Harry nodded subtly, as he he picked up an album that caught his eye. The cover seemed to depict a woman who looked a little worse for wear, and may or may not have been tied to a chair. The album was titled 'Dummy' by a band called Portishead.

Harry frowned. Did the woman end up in that circumstance because she was a...dummy?

In the end curiosity got the better of him, and he decided that this was the album for him. It was then that he retreated into a corner and pretended to read the posters plastered on the wall.

Besides a large pile of ACDC CDs and a few others that bore the name 'Led Zeppelin' and 'Pink Floyd' (Harry didn't know what use a lead zeppelin would be, and he had no idea what a floyd was, pink or otherwise), along with Harry's own selection, Sirius ended up buying a large boom box, and a much smaller one which he took into an alleyway once they left the store, and shrunk them, along with his and Harry's CDs.

The next stop on Sirius's list was something Harry had not been at all expecting – Sirius was dead set on buying himself a motorcycle.

"I used to have one," he told Harry wistfully. "I gave it to Hagrid, though, and I'd feel bad asking for it back."

Harry frowned. "Why would you need a muggle vehicle when you can apparate...and floo...and ride a broom...? Or is this like the cab ride?"

Sirius smirked at him, eyes twinkling. "Oh, I forgot to mention," he said smugly, "It was a flying motorbike."

Harry gaped at that, before grinning. "Brilliant!"

 _The things that amuse you..._

It had taken Sirius a good hour and a half to pick one out, leaving Harry very bored, especially since all the ones Sirius was looking at looked the same to him. He'd said so, horrifying Sirius.

"Blasphemy! This one has -"

And then Harry learned more about motorcycle engines than he ever cared to know. At least it was learning, though, he figured.

In the end, Sirius decided on one that Harry still thought looked like all the others, along with two helmets.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Harry asked warily as they mounted the shiny black contraption.

"I'll have you know, I'm an excellent motorcycle-er-riding-er-person."

"Um, yes, of course, Sirius."

"It'll be fine," Sirius said dismissively, pocketing the fake license he'd conjured for himself (he'd confunded the muggle salesman so that he could sneak a peek at his license and copy it).

Thankfully, Sirius had been right, and they made it to Ming Lao's 24 hour Chinese Restaurant unscathed. A policeman had pulled Sirius over for speeding, at one point, but Sirius successfully confunded the man, and that was the end of it.

Harry was quickly learning what Sirius's favourite charm was.

"Your dad and I came here when we ran away to muggle London together," Sirius said as they entered the deserted, questionably decorated restaurant. He stopped short when he saw the advertisement on the wall. "Yes! They deliver! We'll have to get a telephone."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Some of everything!" Sirius called as they sat down at one of the tables in the corner.

Harry gaped at him. "Isn't that a bit...excessive?"

Sirius waved his concern away. "We'll take the left overs with us back to Grimmauld Place. One less thing for your elf to do." He paused. "See? I can be nice to house elves."

"Except Kreacher."

"Except Kreacher," Sirius agreed. "Honestly, you have no idea what it was like growing up with the little monster. Like a bloody extension of my mother."

Harry grimaced at the thought.

"Was she always so..."

"Unfathomably horrid?"

Harry shrugged. "Or something."

Sirius smiled wryly. "More or less. I remember vaguely that when Reg and I were small she hadn't fallen completely off her rocker yet. By the time I went to Hogwarts she was an insane bitch, though."

Harry nodded slowly. "I -"

But that was when the food started arriving.

"So," Sirius said as he cracked his wooden chopsticks open, "Tell me more about this study club of yours."

Harry perked up at that. "Well, we have two meetings a week. One for duelling, and one for...other stuff."

"Duelling?" Sirius asked, sounding impressed.

Harry nodded avidly. "We start with a list of spells, and practice them until we know them well enough to duel with them. And then we duel – sometimes in a group, sometimes one on one. Usually we just do regular duels, but we sometimes try to have silent duels."

"Silent duels?"

"Only wordless spells," Harry clarified.

Sirius's eyebrows rose. "Third years, casting wordless spells in a duel? That's...incredible, Harry," he said, looking somewhat baffled.

Harry smiled shyly. "We're very limited in our repertoire. I'm the only one who can do wandless magic, though."

Sirius's jaw dropped. "You can do wandless magic!?"

Harry nodded. "That's how I practice over the summer – the ministry writes most wandless magic off as accidental."

Sirius's eyes were glinting. "Wish I'd known that. How'd you figure that out?"

"...it was before I knew about Hogwarts. They never came for me then, so I figured they wouldn't after I started attending Hogwarts, either," Harry said honestly.

Sirius froze. "You mean...before you even knew about magic..."

"I made all sorts of strange things happen, when I was small – everyone hated me for it, and eventually, I just got fed up, and decided there was no point in trying to be normal. So I started teaching myself to do things on purpose...make stuff disappear or blow up, or catch on fire, or levitate..."

"Harry, that's incredible," Sirius breathed.

Harry blushed a little. At this point, he was used to peoples' shocked reactions to the results of what had been both his determination and Tom's training, but it still made him feel warm inside to know that someone cared about what he did and thought it was...well, incredible.

 _You're pathetic._

After all, he wasn't going to get any praise from Tom.

"You really are a great kid, you know that? Your mum and dad would have been so proud. James especially – I can just see it; he'd be over the moon if he knew all the things you can do."

Harry doubted that if he had parents, he would have felt the need to hone his abilities so desperately, but Sirius's proclamation made his heart flutter nonetheless. At the same time...he felt a burning at the back of his throat, and was suddenly aware of a feeling that felt inexplicably like shame.

"So, what other things do you do, besides duelling?"

Harry blinked. "Well, we've done some potion brewing, and we've been working on warding...but mostly -" he dropped his voice "- we've been working on the animagus training."

Sirius's eyes glimmered. "And how's that going?"

Harry sighed. "It's slow. We've done things that require lots of patience before, but I think this is really starting to wear on everyone."

Sirius nodded sympathetically. "It's tough, but I'm sure you'll all get it down soon."

"Oh, yes, of course, but...well, since you're one too...d'you think...maybe...that you could give me a few pointers?"

Sirius grinned. "Of course! We can work on it this summer!"

"Really?" Harry asked excitedly.

Sirius reached over to ruffle his hair. "Anything for you, kiddo."

It was the oddest thing...Harry found himself believing him.

* * *

Their last stop was Diagon Alley. When Sirius parked his bike outside the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, Harry had pointed out that he didn't have his booklist yet, and there was really no point in going school shopping until then.

"School shopping? Hah!" Sirius scoffed. "We're not going _school shopping_ , kiddo. We're going birthday shopping."

Harry was even more confused now. "I think you might be confused, Sirius - it's not my birthday for nearly three more weeks."

"Ah," Sirius said smugly, "But you forget, I have twelve birthdays to catch up on."

Harry gaped at him.

Meanwhile, Sirius brushed past him. "Come on, Harry – I've got money to blow."

Sirius was intent on buying Harry twelve birthday presents, and no less. For the first four, Harry had gotten away with books, but after that, Sirius wouldn't have it.

"No godson of mine is going to spend twelve years of presents on _books._ And not just any books! Books on _politics_? Are you serious? Because I am."

"Ok..." Harry said, trying very hard to figure out what else he could possibly need. "Oh! I don't have any nice dress robes."

Sirius quirked an eyebrow. "Robes it is. Madame Malkin's?"

Harry shrugged, not really knowing where one goes to shop for dress robes. "Sure."

When Sirius burst into Madame Malkin's announcing that he wanted his godson fitted with the best, most expensive dress robes she could tailor, Harry had flushed scarlet in embarrassment.

"Sirius," he hissed, "Not to sound ungrateful or anything...but isn't that a bit much?"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "I don't think you get it, kiddo. I just inherited the entire Black fortune. That's seven hundred years of accumulated wealth, and believe me when I say my family _loved_ to hoard. A representative from Gringotts visited me in the hospital – I'm the Head of the Black family now, and I've got money to blow. What's more, I've decided that I'm totally committed to spending all this money I never wanted on whatever the bloody hell I want. I've already bought my motorcycle, so the only thing I have left to spend money on is...you." He poked Harry in the chest with his index finger.

 _How touching,_ Tom said flatly.

Harry's blush didn't go away, as he shifted uncomfortably. He had to admit, he felt really...uneasy about spending large sums of money for the sake of, well, spending large sums of money. Especially when it was Sirius's family's savings. But then again...

He was starting to get the impression that Sirius resented his family a great deal, and was eager to flippantly get rid of what he had received from them. In which case...well, he still thought it would be best for Sirius to save his money.

Meanwhile, Madame Malkin was thrilled, bustling around the shop collecting rolls of fabric, mumbling about how much she enjoyed tailoring for the 'upper class'.

Harry went even redder in the face.

In the end, Harry decided on some sleek, elegant robes, entirely in black. The fabric was soft to his touch, but it was sturdy and tightly woven. They were kind of like a more expensive version of the black suit he'd bought himself except more...wizardy, what with the long overcoat that fell to his ankles. They fitted him well, and Madame Malkin had assured him that they were charmed to grow with him, for a few centimetres, at least.

Sirius hadn't been too sure about them, however. "Aren't they a bit...Snape-ish?"

Madame Malkin was offended at that though. "I designed Severus Snape's robes," she snapped, "And let me tell you Mr. Black – oh yes, now I remember _you_ , you little troublemaker -"

Sirius gaped at her.

"There is a _vast_ difference. These robes are crafted of the finest textiles – Peruvian acrumantula silk, I'll have you know - handwoven and then spelled to perfection. They're perfectly fitted, entirely _on point_ , and _far_ from practical day wear! The lines are fluid, exact, and artistic, just the right amount of edgy. There are no unintentional creases, no excess bagginess – none of that old-fashioned loose-sleeves nonsense. Under the arms, between the legs, and the waist are _perfectly_ fitted, down to the the tenth of a millimetre, and it's flattering in any way a young wizard could possibly want!"

Sirius was still gaping, and Harry had joined him.

"But..." Sirius said weakly after he had (somewhat) recovered. "They're so...so... _black_."

"They bring out his eyes!"

They asked no more questions.

"Happy?" Sirius grumbled after they left Madame Malkin's, dress robes wrapped up and crumpled under Sirius's arm.

"Immensely," Harry said flatly.

Sirius rolled his eyes. "So that's what, five? Seven more to go."

Harry groaned. "Sirius...I can't even think of seven things that I want. I don't know if there _are_ seven things that I want. Could the CD you bought count for a present?"

Sirius pursed his lips. "Sure."

"And, perhaps you could give me the smaller CD player? You can still use it and everything, it would just be mine in name -"

"Was going to do that anyway, but fine. Now we're down to...five more."

Harry sighed, and scanned the alley, when something caught his eye.

It was the newest, fastest broom model out there – the Firebolt.

Sirius followed his line of sight, and then grinned.

"Excellent choice, Harry," he said, marching over to the Quidditch supply store.

As they approached, Harry stopped short to read the all-caps sign in the window.

THE FIREBOLT

THIS STATE-OF-THE-ART PACING BROOM SPORTS A STREAM-LINED, SUPERFINE HANDLE OF ASH, TREATED WITH A DIAMOND-HARD POLISH AND HAND- NUMBERED WITH ITS OWN REGISTRATION NUMBER. EACH INDIVIDUALLY SELECTED BIRCH TWIG IN THE BROOMTAIL HAS BEEN HONED TO AERODYNAMIC PERFECTION, GIVING THE FIREBOLT UNSURPASSABLE BALANCE AND PINPOINT PRECISION. THE FIREBOLT HAS AN ACCELERATION OF 150 MILES AN HOUR IN TEN SECONDS AND INCORPORATES AN UNBREAKABLE BRAKING CHARM. PRICE ON REQUEST.

"Er, Sirius? It sounds pretty ex-"

But the man had already entered the store, leaving Harry to hurry after him.

"How much for the broom in the window?" he asked the shop-keeper grandly.

The man seemed taken aback by the request, but once he regained his bearings, he relayed the information.

Harry thought he might have grown a bit faint, hearing the number, but apparently Sirius didn't care.

"We'll take it!" he exclaimed happily.

Harry could only gape as the man wrapped up his most recent present.

"That _definitely_ counts as more than one present, Sirius," Harry said faintly as they left the Quidditch suppy store behind.

Sirius stared at him. "Well...maybe two..."

"Three."

"No way kiddo, you're not getting out of this so easy."

Harry sighed. "How about...a...um...can I get some new glasses?"

Sirius stared at him flatly. "We can get you new glasses, but that's not a birthday present."

"You can get me...really fancy ones?" Harry tried. "Titanium. You can get me glasses made out of titanium."

Sirius pouted at him. "You're incredibly boring, you know that right?"

"I prefer being a bit serious."

And that won his godfather over.

After getting the new glasses – self adjusting, water-repellent, fireproof, self-defogging, black titanium glasses (honestly, it was ridiculous) – Harry still had to decide on two presents, and at this point, he was completely stumped.

"Food's a no, school supplies is a no, you've already got me music, a broom, robes, light reading -"

Sirius snorted.

"- and new glasses...there's literally nothing else I could possibly need."

Sirius grinned. "Except that!" He dramatically pointed to a shop behind Harry.

 _Melvin's Magical Menagerie_

Harry blinked. "A...pet?"

"Exactly! Every kid needs a pet!"

"You never had a pet," Harry pointed out. "...did you?"

Sirius paused. "No, I didn't. But I had shitty parents."

Harry shrugged. "Fair enough."

Sirius smirked, before gesturing toward the shop. "Shall we?"

"Uh, sure?"

It was a bit cramped inside – the ceiling wasn't that high despite the fact that cages hung from it in most places; lots of them were filled with bright eyed owls, but a few of them contained birds of a more exotic variety. One of them was even rainbow coloured – Harry had been sorely tempted to ask Sirius if he could have that one, but then the bird gave him a nasty look when he asked it for its name, and he decided against it.

Cages with rats and rabbits lay cluttered across the floor – which Sirius eyed with distaste – and a few cats were lazing about in a far corner of the shop. There were other creatures – what looked something like chinchillas, guinea pigs, lizards, squirrels, and several things Harry did not at all recognize...it was all really quite overwhelming, Harry thought, as he aimlessly ambled between cages and shelves.

But then something caught his eye – or ear, rather.

 _:Honestly, just fuck off you incompetent motherfucking newt,:_ a snippy voice was saying.

 _:That's not very nice,:_ another voice said cheerfully.

Harry glanced around the corner, and found a large cage, with two snakes inside. One was a large Burmese Python, curled up haughtily in the corner, and the other a little coral snake draped over one of the branches.

 _:I don't have to be nice to you, you bottom-feeding tadpole-eater.:_

Harry gaped at the python. He'd never met a ruder snake in his life. He didn't even _know_ snakes could be that rude. He didn't even know there was a parseltongue word for _fuck_.

"What are they saying?" came Sirius's curious voice.

Harry spun around to find his godfather standing behind him.

Harry glanced back at the snakes. _:The bigger one -:_

"All I hear is ssssszzzssszszszsssss," Sirius said flatly.

Harry blushed, and focused on Sirius instead of the snakes. "The bigger one said -" he hesitated, and continued in a hushed voice, "Honestly, just...fuck off you incompetent...motherfucking newt."

Sirius barked out a laugh.

"Then the smaller one told him that that wasn't very nice, and then the bigger one said that he didn't have to be nice, and that she's a bottom-feeding tadpole-eater."

Sirius was shaking in silent laughter. "Bloody hell! Are all snakes this amusing?"

Harry cast a withering stare over his shoulder. _:I've never met a ruder snake in my life.:_

Meanwhile, the snouts of both snakes were now pressed up against the glass.

 _:He's a speaker!:_ the smaller one chirped happily.

Harry nodded mutely.

 _:Prove it,:_ the python hissed snottily.

Harry frowned. _:I just did.:_

 _:Fine, then fuck off.:_ The python slithered off to sulk in the corner.

Harry gaped at him.

 _:He's having a bad day,:_ the coral snake explained.

 _:Of course I am – you're here, asshole.:_ The python seemed to be glaring at them.

Harry was speechless. He honestly had no idea what to say to that.

"What's it saying now?" Sirius asked eagerly.

"He told me to fuck off," Harry said in shock.

Sirius was choking now, trying not to laugh too hard, lest they attract attention.

 _:Hey! Hey!:_

Harry glanced down at the little coral snake who was eagerly tapping on the window.

 _:Do you want to take us home with you?:_

Even the python perked up a little at that, which was adorable in his opinion. They both were.

Really, every snake he'd ever come across was nothing short of incredibly cute, even the more irritable ones, and he still looked back fondly on his memories of his serpentine companions during primary school. Those friendships...they were so simple, frank. It really was a shame that they all dissolved so quickly; it really was a shame that snakes were so prone to leaving. But if he bought them, if they were his pets, they couldn't leave, could they?

So he smiled. _:Of course -_ _just let me ask for permission -:_

 _:What makes you think I want to go anywhere with_ you? _:_ the python interrupted testily.

Harry raised an eyebrow. _:Would you really rather sit in a glass box all day around people who have no idea how much of a jerk you are?:_

The python seemed to consider this. _:You'll just stick us in another cage,:_ he hissed snappily.

Harry shook his head. _:Promise I won't.:_

The snake glared at him. _:I'll eat you if you break your promise.:_

Harry smiled weakly. _:Deal.:_

He turned back to Sirius. "D'you think...maybe...I could have them as a birthday present?"

Sirius looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"You said I could have anything I want," Harry said pleadingly, "Please? I'll take really good care of them, and they'll be good, I promise. I really, really, really want them...please?"

Sirius seemed to be waging some sort of internal battle – which at least meant he was considering it...

Suddenly, Sirius grinned, ruffling his hair, before shouting over his shoulder, "Hey Melvin, how much for the two snakes?"

The man blinked, seemingly shocked by the question. "Er, 50 galleons for the small one, and 60 for the big one."

Sirius grinned. "We'll take them both."

"Er, you sure, mate? They're a little..."

Sirius shrugged. "So am I."

And just like that, Harry had twelve years of birthday presents and two new friends.

Perhaps things really would get better.

* * *

A bit tedious at the end, and _way_ too many bad Sirius jokes (don't worry, I won't be making a habit of it), but it needed to happen.

Anyway, I hope the excessive length kind of made up for the break...


	3. Number 12 Grimmauld Place

**Disclaimer:** Yeah, no owning happening here.

 **AN:** So, yes, I published this chapter shortly before 7 am under a strange compulsion to do so, but I was so intoxicated that I couldn't see straight, so I gave up on my final editing halfway through. However, I have briefly combed through it now that I'm sober (I think I am...I only slept 3 or 4 hours, so there's probably still alcohol in my system), and things look basically ok. So yay!

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Number 12 Grimmauld Place**

 _:What the fuck are those?:_

Harry glanced down at Khor, who was draped around his neck, unapologetically weighing down his shoulders. The python wasn't quite so big that Harry couldn't carry him...yet - but it was by no means a pleasant experience trudging up the rickety wooden stairs of Number 12 Grimmauld place with the extra weight prohibiting his movements.

 _:Ooh! I wanna know too!:_ Naya chirped from her place on his wrist. She, also, had a fair amount growing to do still, and was small enough to crawl up his sleeve.

Sirius and Dobby were currently setting the dining room table – which Dobby had beautifully repaired – with leftover Chinese take-out, and Harry was on his way to the topmost floor of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, where his new bedroom was. His trunk had already been enlarged and brought up by Kreacher and Dobby, along with the CD player, but Harry currently had his robes, broom, books, and snakes draping off of him at various points while he trudged up the stairs.

What had caught Khor and Naya's attention were the rows of plaques lining the walls, each one of them mounted with shrivelled up house-elf heads.

 _:Er...seems to be dead elves.:_

 _:Who the bloody fuck would hang dead elves up?:_ Khor snapped, as though he didn't quite believe him.

Harry sighed. _:Somebody with a bad sense of humour.:_

And with that, Harry continued up the staircase, warily eyeing the dead house elves and the paintings which were, thank all that is holy, all asleep.

At the top of the flight of stairs, he found Kreacher lumbering through what appeared to be his bedroom door, duster in hand.

He stared up at Harry warily.

 _:This one's alive!:_ Naya said excitedly.

 _:But it still looks like the deformed spawn of a crow and a toad,:_ Khor put in flatly.

Harry glared half-heartedly at Khor. _:He's an unfortunate soul. Don't treat him too poorly.;_

 _:It doesn't matter how unfortunate his soul is – I'll still eat his ugly ass if he looks at me wrong.:_

Harry sighed, and glanced down at Kreacher, who looked like he was about to faint.

"Are you alright, Kreacher?" he asked concernedly.

The elf's mouth moved a few times, but he failed to produce anything but faint rasping sounds.

Khor looked very amused by this.

"Kreacher?"

"The blood-traitor's godson, the boy who stopped the dark lord -"

 _They keep mentioning that,_ Tom commented, annoyed.

"- he speaks the noble tongue of serpents."

Harry smiled awkwardly. "I do. These are my two new friends. The big one is called Khor, and the small one is Naya. Naya's well-mannered enough, but you should probably stay away from Khor – he...has issues."

Kreacher just stared at him, dumbstruck.

"I take it you met Dobby?" Harry continued as he stepped toward the room, stopping short when he read the sign attached to the door.

 _Do Not Enter_

 _Without the Express Permission of_

 _Regulus Arcturus Black_

Cautiously, he removed the sign from the door, seized suddenly by a brief but potent emotion that almost resembled guilt, oddly affected by trespassing in the dead man's room.

"I hope you two got on ok. He'll be living here as well."

"The boy who stopped the dark lord, the speaker to serpents, he speaks to Kreacher as though he is his friend..."

"I'd like it very much if we could be friends, Kreacher," Harry said earnestly, as he placed his things on his new bed. "Would you mind telling me how your day went?"

"Harry Potter claims he wants to be Kreacher's friend," the house elf said in wonderment, looking more than a little wary and suspicious.

"And I meant it, Kreacher." He turned to his new reptilian friends. _:You two can explore the house, if you like. But don't eat anything that walks on two legs.:_

 _:Bugger off.:_ Khor said grumpily as he slithered away.

 _:See ya Harry!:_

Harry smiled at them fondly as they left, and then looked around the room. The walls were painted in what was obviously a very Slytherin green, and they were covered in newspaper clippings, yellowed and frayed; most were of Daily Prophet articles, but he noticed a few pieces from muggle newspapers as well. The room was fairly bare, with only a desk, chair and a couple of empty bookshelves populating it. The bed was surprisingly large, though, looking quite grand with the Black Family crest hanging overhead.

Tearing his eyes away from what he couldn't quite believe was his new home, he looked down at Kreacher again, and went to kneel down beside him.

The elf flinched, but didn't move.

"Now, I want you to listen to me, Kreacher. I know that you and Sirius...don't see eye to eye, so I think it's best if you stay clear of each other. If you need anything, come to me or Dobby. I understand that these years alone have been...hard on you, and I want to do anything I can to make the future more comfortable for you."

Kreacher was frozen, and his already watery eyes had grown damper. He had started muttering to himself, "Kreacher does not know, Kreacher does not know...spawn of filth, blood traitor and mudblood...but he speaks the noble tongue of serpents...came with Mistress's blood traitor son...scum...worthless filth...broke mistress's heart...but he stopped the dark lord, he did...what is the boy? How did he do it?" Kreacher was looking at him with an odd light in his eyes. "Met the dark lord...Kreacher did...so bright...so piercing...just like the boy's...the same eyes... so bright, so strange...but they are soft eyes...the boy is soft...son of blood traitor filth...mudblood...but he stopped the dark lord, he did...Kreacher wonders, Kreacher wonders...what would mistress say? What would dear mistress say?"

Harry stared at the pitiful creature, a heavy feeling filling up his chest. The poor thing had gone mad. Utterly and completely mad. He was immediately reminded of Diary-Tom, trapped and lonely without real human interaction for years on end. He shivered at the thought.

"Kreacher," he said softly, shaking himself out of the cold feeling that had settled over him. "Let's be friends, alright? Come on, let's go get some food."

Kreacher recoiled. "The boy says to come eat with the blood-traitor, shame of my mistress's flesh...filth...scum...Kreacher cannot, Kreacher cannot..."

Harry smiled sadly. "I understand, Kreacher. I'll send Dobby over with some food for you."

Kreacher stared at him for a long moment, before he slowly toddled away, muttering as he went.

As soon as he could no longer hear the elf's disgruntled ramblings, he rose to his feet, slowly casting his eyes laboriously around the room, observing every detail but taking in nothing. This was Regulus Black's room. Another Slytherin boy who had given his loyalty to Lord Voldemort...but this other boy had gone on to regret it, and had given up his loyalty to Tom at a terrible price; he had traded it for death. _"I face death"_ \- the words had remained in his mind, sitting there imposingly, pronounced in his own voice. What was running through his mind when he wrote those words? Was it a vain platitude of conviction? Or a genuine written acknowledgement of what he knew was to come?

He shook his head. He should be putting his things away, tidying up...

But it was then that he noted the smell of reheated Chinese fast food wafting into the cold bedroom, and decided he could organize his things later. He had had a serving of the greasy cuisine less than six hours ago, but he found it oddly...addictive, and was suddenly overwhelmed by the inexplicable compulsion to devour more. And so he began the long trek downstairs.

When he arrived in the dining room, Dobby and Sirius were waiting for him at the table, the former looking a little fidgety and the latter looking superbly bored.

"Master Harry has come to eat with us!" Dobby announced to Sirius.

"I can see that," Sirius said dryly.

Harry grinned at Dobby. "Do you like the food, Dobby?"

Dobby gasped. "Dobby would _never_ begin eating before Master Harry arrives!"

Harry blinked. "Oh."

"So," he said to Dobby as he sat down, "How did the cleaning go?"

Dobby frowned. "Dobby did not finish sir, there was more to clean than Dobby could finish in six hours, sir."

Sirius snorted. "And I suppose Kreacher was useless?"

Dobby looked at him awkwardly. "Dobby would not say _useless..."_

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Maybe it's time to just get rid of him – after all, we have Dobby now..."

"No!" Harry exclaimed urgently. "This is his home, Sirius! You can't just make him leave. That would be so cruel!"

"Harry," Sirius began delicately, "I don't know how to tell you this, but house-elves are meant for _doing work,_ not shirking it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I know that. But maybe Kreacher just needs the right motivation."

"Motivation? What sort of motivation?"

"I'm working on it."

Sirius sighed, rolling his eyes, and Harry knew he had won. "Whatever you say, Harry."

Harry beamed at him.

"Anyhow," Sirius said, turning to Dobby, "You were saying, Dobby?"

"Oh yes, sir! Dobby has cleaned the kitchen an dining room, and has finished the dusting and removed all manner of ground-dwelling vermin from the house, sir. Dobby also located a nest of dead puffkseins, which he has removed, however...Dobby has found doxies."

Sirius quirked an eyebrow. "Not all that surprising. How many of them?"

"...many."

"Lovely."

"Dobby also believes he has found a boggart."

Harry grimaced, and Sirius sighed. "I'll take care of it after dinner."

Dobby nodded happily. "Other than the doxies and the boggart, Dobby has finished much of the cleaning, sirs, and if he works though the night, he might finish by tomorrow evening!"

Harry looked a bit alarmed at that. "Oh no, Dobby, don't do that – you need your sleep. You can work for a few hours every day – this doesn't need to be done right away."

Sirius made to object, but stopped when he saw the adoring look on Dobby's face.

"Oh, Master Harry is so kind, so thoughtful...Dobby is so grateful to have such a wonderful master."

Harry was beaming again.

"Excellent, Dobby. Thank you for everything."

Dobby beamed back at him, and Tom responded by exuding utter disdain and disgust at their behaviour. "Anything for Master Harry! And Master Sirius, of course, too!"

Sirius chuckled, clearly very amused at his admittedly strange godson and his even stranger elf.

* * *

After dinner, Harry asked Dobby to take the remaining leftovers down to Kreacher, and, of course, he happily obliged.

"Kreacher be needing all the help he can get," he had said sadly.

Harry had nodded to that. "Take care of him, Dobby, he needs us."

"Of course Master Harry!"

He then proceeded to make the long climb up to his new bedroom, and after replacing the sign on the door with one bearing his own name (and a few other choice words), began to unpack his things.

It was...a task. One that he'd never had the fortune (or maybe misfortune) of partaking in, considering that he had never bothered unpacking his trunk at Number 4 Privet Drive (because, well, it was the _Dursleys'_ place, not his), nor at Hogwarts, where he was required to share a room with people he couldn't entirely trust. If he was being perfectly honest, he didn't quite know why he was bothering to unpack his things _here,_ given that he didn't have an especially pertinent reason to do so...it just seemed _fitting_ in a way. Maybe he had to prove to himself that this was his home now.

And with that in mind, he began to populate his bookshelf; he filled one shelf with his muggle books, along with _Dummy_ and Hermione's mixed CDs, and on the next two shelves up he placed his growing collection of school texts. Another two shelves were dedicated to curses, charms, and warding, and the last two were reserved for theoretical texts like _Ancient and Rare, A Structural Analysis of Magical Contracts,_ and his _Handbook of Arithmancy._ Billy the Baby Skull was placed on top of the bookshelf, along with Harry's new CD player.

Satisfied with his progress thus far, he turned to the second most important items in his possession: his meagre selection of clothing, his Hogwarts robes, and his new dress robes, which were placed in the wardrobe in the back corner of his room, along with his shoes. He hung his Firebolt proudly on the wall, and his homework, spare parchment, and writing supplies were all placed on his desk, everything else being shoved with his trunk under his bed. He decided to leave the newspaper clippings on the walls, because some of the articles were genuinely interesting, seeing as they were almost all about Tom.

It was a novel experience, not having to hoard and hide his treasured possessions; he felt some measure of glee as he placed them all proudly on display. Everything was exactly as he wanted it. For once.

After he'd sorted out his things, he and Dobby went hunting for someplace for Khor and Naya to go while in his room; they settled on a couple of old coat stands, which they set up in the corner nearest to his bed. He'd wanted to show them, but when he finally located them in the drawing room (which was now apparently boggart-free), he was unceremoniously told to 'fuck off' because they were hunting for doxies. Naya, however, had been more agreeable, and happily followed Harry up the stairs to get a look at her new home.

And it was after all that that Harry found himself lying on his bed reading _Magick Moste Evile,_ enjoying the fact that he now had his own room that actually belong undebatably to him, with all his own things, in a house he actually liked, living with people who actually cared about him. It was...a good feeling, he decided. More than good. He felt better than he ever had, before – it wasn't pleasure or excitement; it was comfort and satisfaction.

But it was just as he was starting to relish in that comfort that he heard it – a sound he recognized as electric guitar, which didn't exactly sound horrible, but then came the shrieking:

" _I'M BACK IN BLACK!  
_ _HIT THE SACK!  
_ _I'VE BEEN TO LONG  
_ _AND I'M GLAD TO BE BACK!"_

Harry sighed. So _that_ was AC/DC. Or Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd, but given Sirius's apparent love for the former, he was guessing that's what he chose to listen to first.

 _Get rid of it,_ Tom groused, and Harry was all too happy to oblige.

Bouncing off his very large and plush bed, Harry walked over to to Sirius's room, which was right across the hall.

The door was open, and the man seemed to be moving furniture around, given the chaotic state of the room. Harry stepped inside slowly, eyes catching on the walls, which were covered in Gryffindor banners and pictures of motorcycles and scantily clad women with obscenely large breasts.

Rolling his eyes, Harry called out, "Sirius!"

No answer, except

" _YES I'M BACK,  
_ _WELL I'M BACK..."_

"SIRIUS!"

The man spun around in surprise, and went over to turn the boombox down.

"Harry?"

Harry smiled weakly. "Would you mind turning it down just a little bit? I can try to cast a ward wandlessly, but even if I'm successful I don't think it will be strong enough to block out something this loud."

"You don't like it?" Sirius asked, looking heartbroken.

"I – um – uh -" Harry stammered guiltily.

But Sirius grinned a moment later. "Just kidding. It's an acquired taste – give it a few weeks."

Harry nodded, unconvinced.

"Anyway, I'll keep the volume down," Sirius agreed. "Feel free to shut the door behind you, and I'll put some of my own charms up."

Harry smiled stiffly. "Thanks!"

When he returned to his room, he did what he could to ward the door without a wand - and, to be completely honest, he utterly failed - and was pleased to find that between Sirius's charm work and his (lack thereof), the music was completely drowned out.

Smiling to himself, and blatantly ignoring his failure, he decided to go over to his own CD player and pop his new CD inside.

 _Must you?_ Tom complained. He had certainly been doing a lot of that today.

"Just for a little while," Harry assured him, as he bounced onto his bed and opened _Magick Moste Evile_ up to Chapter 7, _Derkest of Wards._

He smiled in amusement as his CD player began to fill the room with eerie broken guitar chords woven with darkly crooning synthesizers, followed soon by shivering percussion and a fragile, haunting voice.

" _Inside your pretending,  
_ _Crimes have been swept aside,  
_ _Somewhere where they can forget..."_

His mind wandered back to the teenagers he saw in passing on the television, up in their rooms listening to music with not a care in the world, and for the first time in his life, he could honestly say he felt like a kid. A normal, happy kid. And you know what? It wasn't so bad.

 _You're ridiculous._

"I know, Tom."

* * *

It didn't take long for them to fall into something of a routine. And Harry liked routines.

Dobby would make breakfast for Harry around 8 o'clock every morning; Sirius rarely joined him – the man usually didn't leave his bedroom before 10 – but they'd see each other for lunch and dinner every day at the very least.

After breakfast, Harry would go off and make his own idle entertainment; every morning he sat at his desk working on his spell crafting project and writing notes in his diary, occasionally scripting letters to his friends. He'd hear Sirius get up halfway through the morning and if he heard him yelling from the bathroom he knew he had to leave his room to break up an impending fight between Sirius and Khor, who sometimes liked to sleep in the bathtub.

After his daily shower, Sirius would usually...well, Harry didn't know what he did during the first few weeks besides tinkering with his motorcycle...which he would work on tirelessly for hours on end; he was determined to have it flying before Harry left for Hogwarts, so he spent a lot of time on that, but after he'd bought them a television (which had been placed in the drawing room, much to Kreacher's chagrin), he spent a lot of time in front of it too. He usually watched cartoons, but occasionally broadened his selections to more adult entertainment. No, not that, get your head out of the gutter. Grown up shows – you know, documentaries and dramas.

Harry didn't really touch the thing, but he did usually join him for Saturday and Sunday morning cartoons. Tom was incredibly annoyed, but Harry found them extremely amusing, so it was worth the dull headache that typically accompanied them. Muggles were lacking in many areas, to be sure, but certainly not in creativity.

"Come watch Loony Tunes with me!" Sirius had exclaimed at breakfast the Saturday after he bought the television.

"Loony what?" Harry had asked doubtfully.

"It's a show about cartoon animals blowing each other up! It's great!"

Mildly intrigued, Harry had followed him into the drawing room with a cup of orange pekoe tea, and had been hooked ever since.

Soon (meaning within the first two weeks) though, Sirius got a bit bored of the television as well, so he bought himself an electric guitar, and amplifier, which he was now learning to play. He wasn't particularly good, but let it never be said that the man wasn't determined. He was currently working on "Stairway to Heaven". Harry was able to follow the first few bars, but after that Sirius's playing devolved into something unrecognizable. It was a work in progress.

Among Sirius's other purchases was a (less expensive) broom for himself, and it was not uncommon for them to spend a couple of hours after lunch tossing a quaffle around in Number 12 Grimmauld Place's magically expanded backyard.

Other afternoons, Sirius would take him out for a ride on his motorcycle, which was...exhilarating, even if it didn't fly yet. Sirius nearly got arrested a few times for speeding and reckless driving, but as it turned out the man was indeed very skilled with his _confundus_ charm - which Harry did eventually confirm was his favourite charm - so nothing ever came of it. Sirius assured him that their occasional motorcycle rides would be even _more_ exciting once he he got it to fly. Suffice it to say, Harry was looking forward to this. Tom was not.

Anyway, usually their days were actually quite full; neither Harry nor Sirius dealt with boredom particularly well, and both of them put considerable work into ensuring that they were constantly occupied. They actually had a surprising amount in common.

They were very different people, of course – polar opposites, one might even say – but that didn't stop them from finding commonalities between them. Like their hatred of rodents - on particularly boring evenings, they'd have Dobby release some poor, helpless rats in the drawing room so they could watch Khor an Naya brutally hunt, murder, and devour them with an unnerving measure of glee - or their mutual love of obscure and creative hexes and jinxes. Sirius wasn't a dark wizard, but his appreciation for mischief afforded many intersections with Harry's fascination with the dark arts. They could talk for hours on end, about nothing in particular – secret passages in Hogwarts, the contents of the Restricted Section, muggle London, the weather, potential holiday plans, the Marauders, Sirius's time at Hogwarts...

And even though he usually wouldn't see Sirius until they met up for lunch every day, Harry didn't think he'd ever grow tired of ambling down to the quiet dining room to find Dobby serving lunch and Sirius waiting with a happy but inappropriate 'good morning!'

However, living with Sirius _had_ started off confusing, and to be honest, for the first week, Harry didn't know what to expect. Never before had he had a place to call home in which he wasn't required to do any work, or listen to anyone. But Sirius _never_ told him what to do. He suggested things, begged for things, and sometimes grabbed Harry's wrist and dragged him over to come see things, but he never actually handed out orders. Now, Tom was the only one Harry was taking orders from. Which was honestly a blessing, considering that Tom was always telling him what to do, and having another adult breathing down his neck would have been a bit much.

And speaking of Tom, he was starting to get annoyed. They'd found the library – right across from the drawing room – and the dark arts books, but they were unable to remove them from the shelves. Tom had concluded that they were spelled to remain stuck there unless a password was uttered. Harry had tried asking Kreacher, but had little luck.

"The boy who stopped the dark lord wants mistress's precious books...what should Kreacher do...can't risk it, can't risk it...mistress's precious books...precious..."

He was also reluctant to ask about the locket while Sirius was around, given how disastrous the consequences of Sirius overhearing them might be, so that was delayed until he left to buy his television.

Sirius had asked him to come along, but he'd declined, citing his desire to finish reading the letters he was looking through. He'd finished reading everything Remus gave to him ages ago, of course, but he was currently combing through every letter his mother had sent to Remus in an attempt to piece together everything he could about what his mother's thesis project, book, and top-secret research for Professor Dumbledore had been about. So far he'd discerned that her thesis had ended up being about something she called the 'theory of inverses'. She was technically doing her mastery in Charms, but it was evident that she had branched out into general magical theory, and was trying to find substantial links between light and dark magic. The book she was writing was a compendium of emotion-based light magic from traditions outside of western Europe, and her top-secret project...well, that was still unclear. Probably because it was supposed to be top-secret.

Anyway, Harry waited a few minutes after Sirius left, just to make sure the man wasn't coming back, but as soon as it appeared to be safe, he called Kreacher to him.

"Kreacher!"

It took a moment, but the house-elf popped into the room obediently, though evidently begrudgingly, reflexively bowing when he saw Harry.

"The master's godson has called Kreacher," he mumbled.

Harry knelt down, causing the elf to flinch.

Kreacher was still wary of Harry, but seemed to have realized that Harry wasn't going to hurt him at the very least, and had warmed up to him a little bit; the elf no longer insulted him under his breath - at least in his presence - and reluctantly and haphazardly followed Harry's orders even though he was not strictly required to. Harry couldn't say he was satisfied with the progress, but it was certainly something.

"Kreacher," he began delicately, "There's something very important I need to speak with you about. Do you have time now?"

Kreacher just looked at him blankly.

Harry sighed. "I want you to listen to me very carefully, and not repeat anything I tell you, ever again."

Kreacher was starting to look uneasy now, no doubt sensing that this wasn't one of Harry's typical schemes to instigate a friendly conversation.

'Your previous master, Regulus...I know how how he died." He figured it was best to take the plunge.

Kreacher's eyes widened, then, stunned, and his bottom lip began to tremble.

"He died in a cave, right? Retrieving a necklace, a very special locket, which Lord Voldemort hid. Do you remember it?"

The elf's eyes went even wider, and he started to shake all over, beginning to hyperventilate.

"Kreacher remembers. K-Kreacher failed – failed," the elf croaked out in barely more than a whisper, the words falling out of his mouth as though he couldn't help himself, "Master Regulus...Kreacher failed – Master Regulus!"

The elf began sobbing wretchedly - leaving Harry feeling quite taken aback by the ferocity of the usually monotone elf's expression - but it was nothing like when Dobby sobbed...it was heart-wrenching, filled with shame and self-loathing.

"K-Kreacher tried everything – everything – so many spells – Master Regulus _ordered_ Kreacher – destroy the locket, he said – but Kreacher could not – Kreacher f-f-f-failed Master Regulus!"

Harry had frozen, and he felt his limbs slowly growing stiff. He was suddenly and uneasily reminded of his own failures, and before he knew it, tears had begun gathering in the corners of his eyes as empathy rose up inside him, swelling like a tidal wave. He understood the pain of failure, the agony of letting down someone you love.

 _This is ridiculous. Ask it where it put it,_ Tom hissed impatiently.

"Kreacher," Harry said hoarsely, "I am so, so sorry...it must have hurt you so much, failing to fulfill Regulus's orders..."

 _Harry..._

The elf continued to sob.

"Kreacher, I want you to listen to me – I can help you destroy it."

Kreacher froze.

"Find the locket for me, and I will help you destroy it. Elf magic cannot destroy it – but wizard magic can. I can find a way to destroy it. Then you will not have failed Master Regulus. Then you can rest assured that you fulfilled your duty, because you are a good elf, Kreacher, you really are."

Kreacher's lip was still trembling, and he was looking at Harry with unmistakable hope in his eyes.

"Harry Potter...the boy who stopped the dark lord...would help Kreacher carry out Master Regulus's orders? Harry Potter would help Kreacher destroy the locket?"

Harry nodded, his movements a little jerky. "I promise you, Kreacher, I promise. I just need to see it. I need to know where it is. Can you show it to me?"

Kreacher hesitated, but eventually nodded, and started to waddle away.

He eventually lead Harry into the drawing room, and too a glass cabinet beside one of the sofas.

"Kreacher placed it here for safe keeping," Kreacher croaked out, "When Kreacher failed to carry out his orders."

Slowly, Harry opened the cabinet door, and there it was – gleaming and garish, a large S carved out with precious gems. Gasping, he reached out and touched it, relishing at the feel of Tom's magic licking at his skin.

Relief and pleasure flooded through his mind, and he instantly knew that Tom was as close as he was ever going to get to being happy.

"What now?" he whispered.

There was a moment of silence.

 _Leave it there. The elf will protect it._

Harry nodded, and went to kneel down beside Kreacher, who didn't flinch, too caught up in staring at Harry unblinkingly.

"Thank you, Kreacher," he breathed out, still overcome by Tom's reaction to finding his horcrux, "You have been a very good elf – you've carried out Regulus's orders. You've done so well."

The elf coughed out another sob. He was still shaking.

"I swear to you, Kreacher, I will find a way to destroy the locket. All I need you to do protect it. Don't let anyone take it away, keep it here – and I will destroy it for you. You have not failed Master Regulus. You will not fail him."

The elf gasped, and a look of pained elation entered his eyes, as tears continued to roll down his cheeks. "Master...the master is so kind, so good," he whispered raspily, wringing his hands, "To help Kreacher...he says that Kreacher has not f-failed...Kreacher is..."

Harry smiled sadly. "It's ok, Kreacher. That's what friends do for each other – help each other. We're friends, right, Kreacher?"

The elf nodded wordlessly, still shaking, holding in sobs.

"Then you'll call me Master Harry from now on, Kreacher? Because we're friends?" Harry asked hopefully.

Kreacher nodded, looking him in the eye with adoration.

Sirius returned soon after, and found Harry down in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of tea with Kreacher and Dobby.

He looked like he very much wanted to say something about the scene he had stumbled upon, but in the end decided against it, shaking his head and walking away.

* * *

It was when Sirius left to buy his electric guitar that Harry got around to attaining the ever elusive dark arts books. Soon after their conversation about the locket, Kreacher admitted that he didn't know how to get the books off the shelves, and explained that there was only one person who would know the password – Walburga Black. This made Harry very unhappy, because Walburga Black was a _problem._

He didn't understand her. Not in the slightest. People often did puzzling things which were inexplicable from the standpoint of any reasonable other, but usually their words and actions didn't actively contradict common sense to an alarming degree. Harry was pretty sure the late Mrs. Black was miserable - she had to be, trapped in that painting, constantly silenced, deprived of external stimuli, and mad as an intoxicated squirrel. Again, he was uncomfortably reminded of Diary-Tom - of being trapped for eternity in a black, silent prison. It was horrifying. And yet, she did everything in her power to make it happen. She did everything she could to insult and alienate her only living family and ensure that she would endure sensory deprivation for the remainder of her very long life. She was a Slytherin who actively fought against her own self-interest. And Harry didn't know how to deal with that. Tom's lessons and his own personal experiences hadn't come even close to covering this. He was completely in the dark. And thus without a strategy to get what he wanted from this very strange and mysterious woman.

So it was with great trepidation that Harry approached Mrs. Black's portrait after Sirius left, and it was with great courage worthy of a Gryffindor that Harry sheepishly slid the curtains open.

Immediately, the woman opened her mouth to start screaming, but froze when she saw Harry.

" _You_ ," she said venomously as soon as she got over her shock.

"Me?" he responded timidly, not sure what else to say to what was clearly some kind of accusation.

"Child of filth! Son of the abomination! Scum! You dare sully the house of my forefathers!"

"Please," Harry said quickly, "I just wanted to talk to you!"

The woman froze.

"Where has _he_ gone?" the she spat out.

"He's...gone to buy something," Harry said cautiously, "And I...was hoping we might be able to become better acquainted with each other."

The woman glowered at him. "And why would I want to be acquainted the spawn of a blood-traitor and a mudblood?" she hissed.

"Well," Harry said slowly, considering this, "I live here now...with you. And I think it's preferable to be on good terms with the people you live with."

"I will _never_ be on good terms with an abomination like _you_ ," Mrs. Black spat, evidently offended.

Harry tried to smile benignly. "I realize that associating with me isn't preferable to you, but I believe we should at least be cordial with one another - after all, despite the differences in our blood, we might not be so different as to make our interests irreconcilable."

"And tell me, _boy_ , what I could possibly have in common with something like _you_."

"Well, books, for instance. I saw your library upstairs. It's quite lovely."

"Hah!" the woman crowed viciously, "You conniving little miscreant! If you'd been in that library you would know it is filled to the brim with Dark Arts tomes!"

Harry nodded avidly, choosing to ignore the 'conniving miscreant' part. Honestly, this was going much better than he thought it would. "Yes, exactly! Your selection is far superior to the Restricted Section at Hogwarts!"

The woman was staring at him with a deliberately impassive look on her face, but Harry could tell that she couldn't help but be a little flattered.

"It really is a shame," he lamented, "That all the books are stuck to the shelves. Kreacher mentioned that there's a password. You wouldn't happen to know it, would you?"

Apparently he had made the transition too abruptly, though, because the woman's eyes lit up once again.

"And why would I tell a mudblood-loving blood-traitor how to access the precious tomes of the House of Black?" she said furiously, "To throw them out, to rip them up! Burn them!"

"Please, Mrs. Black," Harry said with some desperation in his voice, "Of course I don't want to throw them away! I want to read them!"

"You don't fool me, boy. No Gryffindor would read those books!"

"But I'm not a Gryffindor," Harry said with genuine confusion, "I'm in Slytherin."

The woman froze again. "What?"

"I was sorted into Slytherin," Harry said carefully, "But that's got nothing to do with this. I'd just like to do some extra reading. As I mentioned, you have books here that even the restricted section at Hogwarts doesn't have. This is an incredibly opportunity, to be able to learn from all the knowledge your family has accumulated over the centuries," he explained.

Mrs. Black's eyes narrowed. "And what exactly do you want to read?"

"There's a book called _Magicks of the Sowle_ ," Harry said immediately, "I've never seen anything like it...not even at Borgin and Burkes," he threw in.

"You...have been to Borgin and Burkes," the woman stated doubtfully.

Harry nodded. "That's where I got my copy of _Magick Moste Evile,_ " he put in casually.

Her eyes narrowed further. "How naughty. Your _godfather_ ," she spat out the word as though it was something vile, "Would not approve," she said mockingly.

"Do you really care?" Harry asked, puzzled.

The woman smirked a little. "Name me five curses out of _Magick Moste Evile."_

" _Anathema purgo, evoco pavor, excorio, interfodio, venter favor,_ " he rattled off immediately.

She paused, black eyes drilling into him mercilessly. "You practice the dark arts, boy?"

"Fervently," Harry said resolutely.

Another long pause.

"If only to spite my worthless son... _Tojours Pur._ "

Harry nearly banged his head on the wall. Of course it was. Instead he settled on gushing, "Thank you so much Mrs. Black! I promise, I won't let _anything_ happen to them! I swear it! Thank you thank you thank you so much!"

Harry could swear the woman was looking amused now.

"Thank you!" he shouted again, before he ran up the stairs, eager to move as many dark arts books to his room as he could before Sirius returned.

While he was sifting through books in the Black library, it kept occurring to him that he had forgotten something, but it didn't become evident until Sirius returned.

"SCUM! FILTH! BLOOD-TRAITOR! SHAME OF MY FLESH! YOU DARE BRING THAT MUGGLE FILTH INTO THE HOUSE OF MY FOREFATHERS!"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU MISERABLE OLD HAG!"

Harry sighed. He'd forgotten to close the curtains.

"AAARGGGHHHH!"

* * *

The room was only dimly lit, the air thick with must and mildew.

"Where is Nagini?"

"I don't know, My Lord..."

The scene was plunged into darkness.

"...The journey has tired me greatly..."

".My Lord, may I ask how long are we going to stay here?"

"...It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over..."

He could see again. A fire crackled in the corner, casting shivering shadows on the weathered wooden floor and the old furniture. The image flickered with the firelight.

"...It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord..."

There were two voices, two men, both obscured by a droning static.

"...I am no stronger, and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of the little health I have regained under your clumsy care. _Silence!"_

One voice was whimpering and quivering, the other cold, high, and commanding – barely human, made even less so by the ever-present distortion.

"...Come, Wormtail, one more death and our path to Harry Potter -"

All was once again plunged into darkness.

"- is clear. I am not asking you to do it alone. By that time, my _faithful_ servant will have rejoined us..."

",.. _I_ am a faithful servant..."

The quivering voice was alien, unfamiliar, and ugly in his ears, but the other...

"...Ah, Wormtail, you don't want me to spoil the surprise..."

It was straight out of a nightmare; no, a memory – it was a harbinger of death and fear and failure.

"...But I am not a man, muggle. I am much, much more..."

No, it was not the voice of a man. Something stranger; something far worse than a man could every become.

The static grew louder, and louder - and then, suddenly, all fell silent and black.

Then he saw it, as though peering through a keyhole, barely there.

"...Wormtail, come turn my chair around..."

The images were alien, unsolidified in his mind. All he knew was that it - all of it - reeked of evil and death.

" _Avada Kedavra."_

Harry's eyes snapped open and he bolted upright in his bed, breathing heavily as his scar throbbed.

What was that? When was that?

 _:Bad dream,:_ Harry hissed on reflex.

 _I know. I saw it as well._

Harry froze.

"What?" he whispered weakly. "Then it was..."

There was a pause. _That was...not mine. I have no recollection of such an event._

Harry's eyes widened as he shivered. If Tom had no memory of it, then perhaps it wasn't a dream, nor a memory; perhaps it was something else.

The quivering man – he was called Wormtail, so...Peter Pettigrew? And the other man...it was Lord Voldemort; shamefully weak and desperate, but definitely Lord Voldemort – there was no doubt in his mind. Perhaps it was a memory from before, when Pettigrew served Lord Voldemort...but no...Voldemort was powerful and imposing during the time when Pettigrew served him, not some subhuman creature unable to feed and care for itself – and besides, if Tom did not remember...

Then maybe...had Pettigrew gone back to his old master? Maybe - he shuddered at the thought - it was something that happened recently, in the last 9 months since Pettigrew escaped...

When _was_ that?

They mentioned him...using him to do something...and they also mentioned – what was it? Ah, the Quidditch World Cup...which was in a few weeks.

Harry suddenly felt very cold, and his stomach squirmed. Maybe it wasn't a memory at all; maybe it was a vision, of something happening _right now_.

"Tom, is it possibly that I was seeing..."

 _The present? The Lord Voldemort of here and now?_

Harry nodded.

 _That seems a...plausible explanation..._

Tom sounded uneasy, leaving Harry feeling cold and disturbed.

"Then...Pettigrew is with your master soul, and they're planning something..."

 _Something that involves you._

Harry nodded shakily. "So that means if everything goes to plan, I will -"

 _We will -_

"- end up..."

 _Dead._

Harry shivered. "We can't...we can't let this happen, Tom."

 _No, no we cannot._

"What do we do?" Harry whispered, trying not to sound too hysterical.

 _We must prevent my master soul and Wormtail from working together. It is likely that they have two goals – the first priority will be to secure a stable body for my master soul and the second will be to see you dead. We obviously cannot allow either outcome._

"But how do we prevent them from working together?"

 _We will need to locate them._

"We've got nothing to go on, though – I only got glimpses of the room they were in, and I was barely able to retain what was there – we have no way of knowing where they are."

 _The information we can glean from your vision is admittedly sparse...but I believe that I know the reason for this._

"Which is...?"

 _Your occlumency shields. They will prevent our minds from forming a strong enough connection to give us anything useful._

"I...don't even know how to lower my occlumency shields while I sleep anymore," Harry admitted, a little embarrassed.

 _That we can work on._

"Fine, but what do we do once we find them? We can just kill Pettigrew, right?"

Tom chuckled. _You sound quite eager._

"I'd...prefer it if he were dead," Harry admitted sheepishly.

 _He is an unnecessary liability. On that we can agree._

"So...we find them, I stun Pettigrew wandlessly and then...I don't know, stab him?"

Harry could feel Tom's amusement. _Or slit his throat._

"Or that. But then what do we do with your master soul and his, er, body-ish thing he has going on?"

Tom was silent for a moment. _From what we witnessed I have concluded that it is unlikely that that body would survive without Wormtail's assistance. So we might as well destroy the body. It will mean my master soul escaping – which means that we will have to locate him again eventually – but we have neither the time nor resources to keep him alive ourselves._

"He's capable of casting the killing curse," Harry pointed out.

 _But he is weak, and you will be faster. With the correct timing I believe you will be able to dispose of them both. If not, we will have my wand on hand and I can take care of whatever you cannot._

Harry nodded slowly. "Ok...ok, that seems reasonable. So we just need to find them."

 _We will work on this tomorrow. For now, it is best that you sleep while you can. If we are successful, the next few nights will not be restful for you._

Harry nodded again, and lay back in his bed and closed his eyes...but to no avail. A half hour later, he had still not fallen asleep; his mind kept playing the dream through his head, over and over again, like a broken record.

" _Avada Kedavra."_

" _Avada Kedavra."_

" _Avada Kedavra."_

Sighing, he rose to his feet and quietly left the room, opening his palm and whispering, _"Lumos_."

He wandered around the house for a while, not really knowing what to do. He felt...strange. Violated. His dreams had been invaded by thoughts and experiences that weren't his...or Tom's. And it left him uneasy, anxious. He knew that he wouldn't be able to get anything done, so he didn't bother trying; instead, he looked around listlessly, idly ambling down the stairs, until he came to the library. Perhaps a book might help him sleep?

Absently, he perused the titles on the worn, stained oak shelves, looking for some light reading – something fascinating enough to distract him, but mundane enough that he might fall asleep reading it.

Eventually, one title caught his eye, _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._ It was an inconspicuous looking book, clearly a collection of stories or fables, but that was not what caught his eye. What caught his eye was the fact that this anthology of the tales told by some old bard was not buried amidst the shelves of the Black Family library dedicated to fiction and poetry; no, this was right beside _Genealogies of Olde Britain._

Curiously, Harry removed the book from the shelf and sat down on the small cushioned chair in the corner, flipping through the pages absently, crossing paths with tales with titles like "The Wizard and the Hopping Pot" or "Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump" - but he froze when he saw something very familiar. He had landed on a story near the end, bearing the name "The Tale of the Three Brothers." The name was innocuous enough; no, it was not the name that interested him – it was the symbol etched into the corner of the first page. It was a triangle surrounding a circle, divided in two by one black line. Where had he seen that? Where -?

He glanced down at his right hand, where the Gaunt Family ring sat on his middle finger, invisible and insubstantial to everyone but him. He held it up to his face and peered at it closely; and sure enough, etched into the black stone, was the same symbol.

Harry frowned. "Do you know what that is?" he asked curiously.

 _No, I have never seen it anywhere else,_ Tom said in a voice that clearly indicated that he was idly indulging Harry, and that the question was of no consequence.

But Harry wasn't so sure. There was something, something deep within him, that told him...that these were more than a few idle scratches on a page.

"Huh," Harry said thoughtfully, and began to read, dream forgotten.

 _'There were once three brothers who were travelling along a lonely, winding road at twilight...'_

* * *

And the plot thickens! Tell me what you think in a verbose review that I will read every word of!


	4. Sirius Black (Part 1)

**Disclaimer:** Hopefully I'll be owning a theorem or two in the relatively near future, but I can't hope for much more than that.

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Sirius Black (Part 1)**

"Don't be rude."

"When have I ever been rude?"

Harry ignored him. Typical. "And don't talk about muggles, or blood purity, or dark magic, or Voldemort, or the war, or politics, or the Chamber of Secrets, or Dobby, or Professor Dumbledore, or...I think that's it, actually."

He raised an eyebrow. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were afraid that I'll embarrass you."

"Well there's that -"

He made a _very_ scandalized face, complete with a diva-like hand gesture.

"- but I think these are just basic conflict avoidance strategies."

He opened his mouth to respond, but a _crack!_ interrupted him as Dobby appeared in the room.

"Sirs! Someone has arrived on the doorstep!" The slightly manic elf gave a small bow and then disappeared again.

"That'll be Hermione," Harry said, a smile lighting his face as he abruptly marched out of the room. A moment later, though, he reappeared.

"You should change your shirt."

And then he left, leaving Sirius staring down at his oil-stained blue button-down and chuckling softly to himself.

He found himself doing that a lot – laughing mildly at his godson's odd mannerisms. The slightly awkward, yet charming kid wasn't anything like what he had expected – not even close, in fact.

He used to think about what his godson might be like, back in Azkaban – that was part of what kept him going; watching countless versions of Harry Potter growing up, transforming from an exceptionally well-behaved baby to a brave, talented young man. He often would imagine him as some hybrid of James and Lily – a kind boy with Lily's tenderness and James's boldness, or a clever delinquent with James's propensity for mischeif and Lily's academic prowess. Or perhaps a combination of the two – a trouble-maker with a heart of gold. He imagined Harry as a Gryffindor, and probably a future auror.

But Harry, while sometimes soft-spoken, was not tender. He was not bold; he had a quiet confidence about him. He was not a Gryffindor; he was a Slytherin. Not a slimy Slytherin, mind you, but a Slytherin nonetheless; he was still a good kid...he was just more...well...you know, _Slytherin_ than your average 14 year old.

At first he hadn't seen it at all. What he had seen was an infuriatingly polite little nerd – Ravenclaw for sure. _Possibly_ an academically inclined Hufflepuff. Maybe even a Gryffindor, what with his famed exploits. The more he spoke to the kid, the more he noticed things, of course – the cleverness, the deliberately diplomatic way of explaining things, his driven pursuit of both academic and social success. But it was not until he started living with the kid for a few weeks that he really understood.

Harry _always_ got what he wanted. He was mostly passive, mostly happy to take whatever was given to him and let things be, but whenever he wanted something, he made sure to set up his success impeccably. A perfect example of this was his acquisition of Kreacher's loyalty. It was uncanny to the point of being almost disturbing how the elf had become attached to his half-blood godson; no, attached wasn't quite the right word – try _enamoured_ with. He didn't know what Harry did, but he had to have done _something_ – Kreacher wouldn't have responded to kindness, as Harry claimed. He would have needed to be _manipulated_ into liking anyone who wasn't a pure-blooded member of the House of Black or its allies. Still, Harry insisted that 'kindness begets kindness'...and, well, he didn't care enough to push.

And then there was the ambition – he had never met a kid more determined to master, well, every area of magic. Lily had always endeavoured to do her best, but Harry clearly aspired to be _be_ the best; he seemed determined to be exemplary in every way. He honestly wasn't sure it was healthy, but the kid would figure that out on his own eventually.

Because despite his clear lack of insight in certain...glaringly obvious...areas – he'd never met someone so intelligent and yet so oblivious – the kid was good at figuring things out. He was beyond impressed with his godson's determination and ability to independently overcome the many, many challenges that had been set for him. And despite how awkward, slightly manipulative, and tirelessly ambitious the kid was, he knew James and Lily would have been proud.

"- I think Naya's in my room. Not sure where Khor is – he's a bit of a bastard, so we usually let him do as he pleases."

He grinned as he began to look through his wardrobe for one of his other blue shirts. It had taken seven months to expand the kid's vocabulary to something remotely acceptable for a teenage boy, but he'd finally done it.

"I'm sure he's not that bad," a female voice said.

"He has issues."

"Maybe it's just a communication error – different species and everything -"

"No, he has serious issues. And I'd know, because as everyone is aware, I'm the paradigm of a well-adjusted, issue-free human being." And there was the flourishing sarcasm.

"You shouldn't mock yourself like that," Hermione scolded.

"I believe in free speech."

"No you don't. Malfoy can attest to that."

"...I sometimes believe in free speech."

He heard Harry's bedroom door close, just as he located the shirt he wanted to wear.

He knew he probably shouldn't be letting Harry bring his female friends into his bedroom and then close the door behind them, and for a moment he considered going to knock on the door and demand that it stay open, but then he realized that he couldn't bring himself to care if Harry wanted to snog his best friend, and resolved to refrain to saying anything.

He smiled, recalling the first time he had a girl in his bedroom – Charlotte Macmillan...who had turned out to be his third cousin – as he removed his shirt and tossed it into the corner behind his door; but then his smile fell into a frown as he poked at his ribs, which were still far too prominent.

"Dobby!"

 _Crack!_

"Yes Master Sirius!"

He removed his flask from the top of his wardrobe and handed it to Dobby.

"Dobby, if you would, please refill this with Old Ogden's Firewhiskey, and then bring me something greasy."

"Yes, of course, sir!"

 _Crack!_

Siriur stared down at his shirt for a moment, before tossing it onto his bed, collapsing beside his motorcycle, and picking up his wand and wrench.

"Now let's see here..."

A barbarian or a moron might think that charming a motorcycle to fly was a matter of a few simple spells, but anyone with the slightest amount of sophistication of thought would know that it wasn't nearly that easy. Not only was some carefully tailored spell-crafting required; an eye for detail and a knack for problem-solving were needed as well. Authenticity was an issue – sure, you could just charm the motorcycle to levitate, but what was the fun in that? He wanted everything to function just as it would if it were a plain old muggle motorcycle; the throttle needed to still function as an accelerator, the hand brakes still needed to work, the clutch, the gears...they all had to do their jobs. Which meant that some knowledge of mechanics and electronics and a lot of intricate spellwork was crucial to the success of his project. Time, effort, and research. Thank you very much.

 _Crack!_

"Thanks, Dobby, just leave it on the floor."

"Will Master Sirius be needing anything else?"

He paused to think for a moment. _Did_ he need more than - whatever the deep fried morsels on the plate were - motorcycles, and whiskey? Did anybody? "The flask is full?"

"Of course, sir!"

"Excellent. Then...you go and...do whatever you do then."

"Thank you, sir!"

 _Crack!_

Absently, he reached over and grabbed one of the small fried snacks Dobby had made – which were not too warm, not too cold, just perfect, bless Dobby's heart – with his left hand while he used his wand to flip through pages in the motorcycle owner's handbook.

Part way through his plate of somethings he conjured a cup and filled it with a wordless _aguamenti –_ not anything against Dobby's cooking, but there was only so much he could take without something to wash it down with. Normally some whiskey would have done fine, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he'd need the entire flask later on. Sure, it was four times bigger on the inside, but he still thought there was a distinct possibility he'd need it all.

It was just as he was polishing off his plate that three sharp knocks sounded on his bedroom door.

"Sirius!"

He glanced down at his watch, which read two-fifty p.m.

"The party doesn't start until three!" he hollered through the closed door.

There was a pause on the other side. "May I come in?"

He sighed and rose to his feet slowly, wincing as his back cracked. Merlin, he was getting old. Picking up the shirt he'd tossed on his bed earlier, he slid it on and began the process of buttoning it, as he walked over to the door, opening it to find a blank-faced Harry on the other side.

Uh oh. He was in trouble.

"We're supposed to be early. Did you forget?"

No, he didn't forget; he just wasn't so eager to spend any more time with his cousin and her... _husband_ than necessary.

"I didn't _forget_..." he drawled, glancing over at Hermione, who was standing behind Harry and trying to inconspicuously take a peek inside his room. He saw her bright blush when she finally stole a glance.

"Then are you ready?" Harry said, a little impatiently.

"Just the one thing – _accio flask!_ "

His flask of firewhiskey flew into his hand and he pocketed it, ignoring Harry's disapproving stare. The kid would understand when he was older.

* * *

"So, cousin Sirius," Narcissa Malfoy, his endearingly stuck up cousin, began tentatively, "What has been occupying your time since your release?"

Sirius, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Thaddeus Nott, and Annette Greengrass were all seated on the Malfoys' veranda, watching the Quidditch "game" being played on the Malfoy's perfectly trimmed lawn. It was a few days after Harry's fourteenth birthday, and the Malfoys had consented to hosting his very first birthday party, seeing as Number 12 Grimmauld Place wasn't the best suited for entertaining guests, especially children, what with the mad house elf, screaming portraits, and shrivelled heads on the walls...not to mention the snakes (one of whom was a massive prick). Honestly, issues was putting it lightly.

Sometimes he thought he had jumped the gun a bit by buying Harry two snakes, both of whom were deadly, but to be fair, he hadn't known how dangerous Khor and Naya actually were when he bought them. Either way, Harry loved them, so it was...almost worth it.

So anyway, here Sirius was, spending his August afternoon with snobby purebloods, of whom at least two were once Death Eaters.

His mother would be so proud.

"Besides seeing to the cleaning of Grimmauld Place?" he asked sarcastically, "The place was a bloody disaster, and that damn house elf, Kreacher, is next to useless."

To be fair, the cleaning was finished weeks ago, but Kreacher had purposefully put a cockroach in his eggs that morning (which Harry wouldn't let him punish him for!), and he wanted an excuse to complain about the little monster in a way that seemed moderately respectable and sidestepped the true issue of him, a famed Azkaban escapee, being bullied by a bloody house elf.

Lucius, his stuck up cousin's even more stuck up husband, raised an eyebrow. "Why not get rid of it, then? As I recall, Mr. Potter has an elf of his own. Surely he's not opposed to sharing."

Sirius snorted, and fought down the desire to make mocking comments about how exactly Harry came to own a house elf in the first place. He'd been extremely amused when Harry told him he'd managed to _blackmail Lucius Malfoy_. Harry had been a little vague on what exactly the blackmail itself actually was – apparently the man _carelessly_ distributed a certain cursed piece of stationary among the Hogwarts student body, which, which, through a very unfortunate set of circumstances, resulted in the Chamber of Secrets being opened – but suffice it to say, he was impressed with his godson's resourcefulness and audacity; he had the makings of a Marauder yet.

But no, he was already on tenuous ground – it was only three thirty and he was already delving into Harry's list of forbidden topics.

"Oh, believe me, I tried, but Harry wouldn't have it. Apparently Kreacher is 'misunderstood', and needs 'proper caring for'. The bloody elf worships him, both of them do. As for Dobby...he's been a great deal of help, for sure, but Harry insists on giving him time off."

"Time...off?" Annette Greengrass, in all her luscious blonde glory – honestly, he'd cut off a few fingers if it meant he could be the conspicuously absent Mr. Greengrass for a day – said confusedly.

Everyone looked very befuddled at the notion. Idiots. ''Time off' – was the meaning not obvious? This is what he'd been saying for years - what purebloods lacked in common sense they made up for in idiocy. He was obviously the exception.

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you know – free time. Time you don't have to work -"

"I think," Narcissa put in, "Annette wishes to know what _use_ a house elf might have for time off."

Ok, that was fair.

"He just, you know, does his own thing. Apparently he's grown fond of exploring muggle London and pranking the muggles in Harry's old neighbourhood. He's particularly partial to clogging drain pipes and hiding socks."

"And you...condone this behaviour?" Annette asked, with what sounded like genuine curiosity.

Sirius could not keep the wolfish grin off his face. "Of course I do. The bloody muggles had it coming to them, useless swots in their perfect houses and perfect yards." Indeed, he fully supported Dobby's mostly harmless attempts to punish the muggles that had ignored and shunned Harry throughout his whole childhood.

The stuck up white-blonde ponce with no redeeming qualities raised one eyebrow. "I would have thought your views on muggles would be more...progressive, Sirius."

Ah, and here comes forbidden topic #2.

Sirius tried to suppress a shiver at the sound of his name sliding though Lucy Boot-Licking Perfect-Hair Malfoy's lips. Thankfully he succeeded – after all, he had promised Harry he'd be on his very best behaviour. No, he hadn't promised _that_ much, but he was pretty sure shuddering when someone said your name would be considered rude.

He settled on shrugging. "Depends on the muggle. Same with wizards, house elves, and werewolves," he said casually, "There are decent ones and then there are no-good cowardly gits with bad hair and too much money and -" Right, best behaviour. "- well, you know the sort."

Thaddeus Nott (who looked, on closer inspection, scarily like that muggle actor Christopher Lee's twin), at the very least, looked vaguely amused by him. Lucius was not.

Meanwhile, Narcissa coughed delicately. "How fascinating. So besides overseeing the cleaning of Grimmauld Place...?"

"Oh, well, I bought another motorcycle."

No reaction.

"And I've been learning electric guitar."

Everyone looked generally unimpressed. Honestly, these people were so uncivilized.

There was a very long and awkward pause

"Lucius mentioned seeing you down at the DMLE office a few times," Narcissa said curiously, keeping her voice light. "I hope they're not still bothering you about that dreadful Azkaban business."

Dreadful Azkaban business. Merlin save him from disgustingly transparent euphemisms. Why couldn't people just say 'twelve year imprisonment in hell on earth under false charges'?

Rather than scoffing at her barely concealed attempt to glean news to gossip about (honestly, the woman called herself a Slytherin), Sirius shook his head. "Before the, uh, _dreadful Azkaban business_ -" he couldn't quite keep the mocking tone out of his voice "- I was finishing up my auror training. I had a few exams left...the Auror Department has agreed to let me pick up my studies again. In the meantime, I'll be working as a DMLE agent on a trial basis," he said, unable to completely keep the pride out of his voice. He was more than a little excited to get out there and start _doing_ things again.

Wait. Auror = dark wizard catcher = person who arrests people who cast dark magic. Was this violation #3?

"I would have thought you inherited the Black Family fortune, even after..." Narcissa's voice trailed off.

"Oh, I did. I'd just rather fuck up dark wizards than sit on my arse all day."

Definitely violation #3.

Cissy and Lucifer looked scandalized at his language, but Annette seemed amused. Christopher Lee's face had gone back to that scarily blank canvas it had originally been at the beginning of the conversation. He resisted shuddering.

They had returned to that awkward silence again.

He missed his motorcycle.

"So Sirius," Annette said suddenly, "I had no idea you and Narcissa were so close."

They both looked at her, very confused.

Well, sure he hated her less than the rest of his family, and found her far more tolerable than her snake-face-worshiping, foaming-at-the-mouth-crazy sister, but that wasn't really a significant accomplishment on her part.

"Well, she and Lucius _are_ hosting your godson's birthday party," Annette explained.

"I think it's more for Harry's sake," Sirius said wryly.

"Any reason we're not at the Black Family ancestral home?"

Sirius barked out a laugh. "Well, my mother's portrait has a habit of shrieking at the top of her lungs when disturbed."

He got some incredulous looks at that.

"And then there's Kreacher, who's really quite mad. Dobby doesn't seem totally right in the head either, to be honest. No offence," he added insincerely, glancing at the Malfoys.

They seemed to agree.

"And if that wasn't bad enough, there are house elf heads on display along the staircase. Permanent sticking charm."

Annette looked a little horrified at that, but Christopher Lee's lip had quirked upward a bit. Lucy and Cissy, of course, already knew this.

"And then there's the snakes."

"The snakes."

"Yes I...might have bought Harry a couple of snakes for his birthday," he admitted. "And they might be a little on the...dangerous side."

" _You_ bought your godson _snakes_ ," Narcissa said incredulously, sounding more than a little concerned. "Dangerous snakes."

"Well, one of them is a complete arsehole, but the other is really well-behaved. So...one of them is dangerous."

"And how could you possibly know that?" Narcissa said skeptically. "They're _snakes_."

Sirius froze. He couldn't very well tell them about Khor's potty-mouth and Naya's sweet demeanour. "Ah, yes, well, it's kind of obvious, they're...very spirited."

"Are you sure it's...wise...to give your godson pets like that?" his cousin asked concernedly.

"He takes care of them well," Sirius said defensively. "He's really good with animals."

"But _dangerous snakes?_ " Narcissa asked, still in disbelief, looking like she was, for the first time, questioning his sanity. Her mistake.

"He's rather partial to them," Sirius said with feigned nonchalance.

He got some doubtful looks at that – from everyone except Christopher Lee.

"I once knew a wizard who was particularly good with animals," the man said musingly, his voice completely devoid of expression.

Sirius felt himself go stiff, along with everyone else at the table. "I don't know what you're trying to -"

"He was especially partial to snakes," the man interrupted, his voice quiet but firm.

Sirius felt his blood run cold, and anger began swirling tempestuously in his chest. "If you think you can compare my godson to Voldemort -"

Both the women gasped, and the wimpier Death Eater at the table narrowed his eyes. And that was violation...what? 4? 5? Maybe even 6? Apparently this was the straw that broke the camel's back, though, because a tense silence fell over them all as soon as he stopped short in his impending tirade.

He was still glaring at Nott, of course, while the man stared back at him with a very unaffected look on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Narcissa deliberately looking away, while Lucius glared at him and Annette stared on, slightly pallid, with interest.

But even as the tension refused to dissipate – it seemed to thicken, in fact – no one made a sound, let alone any motion at all.

Until Annette shrieked shrilly.

All eyes snapped toward her, and upon seeing the source of her distress Sirius's stomach churned; for on her shoulder, staring intently at her ears, was a very familiar snake.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit...

He froze. No, no, he could deal with this.

Releasing a shaky sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't – don't move, Annette...she's...very, very venomous."

The pale woman looked at him frantically. " _She?"_

Instead answering the implicit question, he stood up slowly cautiously reached out toward her but recoiled when Naya made a protesting hissing sound. He didn't need to be a parselmouth to know that the snake wasn't going to come with him willingly.

Well, when at first you don't succeed, try and try again. So he held out his hand again, only to have his action vehemently rebuked.

So, resigned, he hollered, "HARRY!"

Naya was well-mannered enough (or so Harry told him), but he wasn't about to start picking her up off of people when she didn't want to be touched. Merlin knows what she'd do if he accidentally hurt her or something. Merlin knows what Harry would do.

Meanwhile, Harry had dismounted his broom, and was walking over briskly, but as soon as he caught sight of the snake, he started running.

He opened his mouth, probably to confusedly ask what happened, how the snake got there, but that's not quite what happened.

"Sssszzzssssszzsss..." was all he heard.

Oh for the love of – why could the kid not control his bloody hissing? How he'd made it so far without revealing his secret was beyond him.

"Harry," he interrupted flatly.

The boy blinked at him in that really innocent looking way he always did.

He rolled his eyes, and did his best to look really nonchalant about the whole thing. "All I hear is sssszzzssss."

Harry's eyes widened dramatically, and his mouth dropped open slightly, as he cast panicked glances at each of the adults seated in front of him, all of whom were looking positively bewildered, and somewhat terrified. Sirius found himself wishing that he could've said something that would have made them give _him_ looks like that.

"Harry," he said again, remaining very calm, if only for his godson's sake, "What's your snake doing here?"

The poor kid's head whipped around to look at the snake to hiss something else, pausing to listen to the snake's response, and then his face straightened and transformed quickly into a look of exasperation.

"She wanted to meet my friends," he explained evenly, staring pointedly away from the snake. Why couldn't he have done that earlier?

"And she didn't want me to pick her up because..."

Harry huffed. "She likes Mrs. Greengrass's earings, and wanted to look at them a while longer."

Oh for god's sake...bloody snakes.

His godson turned to Annette, and closed his eyes before saying softly, "Just hold still, Mrs. Greengrass. I'm going to pick her up."

The woman, still frozen, did nothing as Harry reached forward and picked the snake up, hissing as he did. Meanwhile, the snake ducked its head, looking rather ashamed in a visibly...human way.

He turned back to Sirius. "Don't worry, we're going to have a long talk about this when we get home." He stared down at the snake menacingly, and he could swear there was a glint of satisfaction - actually, it looked more like triumph and gratitude, if you looked especially closely - in his godson's eyes when he hissed something that caused the snake to shrink into his hand.

But suddenly he found himself feeling uneasy. Like something was...off. Like what he thought was happening wasn't actually happening, and something entirely different was happening instead.

Because of his pets, Harry frequently spoke parseltongue around the house; at first it had bothered him a bit, but soon his unease turned into fascination, and he would often find himself listening in on Harry's conversations with Khor and Naya, despite not understanding a...hiss of it. Parseltongue was free of most of the inflections that indicated context and emotion for human languages...but he had heard enough parseltongue to be quite sure that what his godson had just hissed had been anything but threatening. He'd heard Harry threaten Khor on multiple occasions, so he knew what it sounded like - the hisses were sharp and short and just a little more guttural - but what he had just heard was soft and fluid, and sounded more like reassurance or explanation...which forced the uncomfortable speculation into his mind that the two were, in fact, acting. That would explain Naya's earlier decidedly un-snake-like expression of shame...

Had Harry _planned_ this?

"How did she even _get_ here?" he decided to ask.

Harry looked very sheepish. "Ah...um...she stowed away in my book bag."

In the book bag...right.

He looked at him flatly. "That's what you get for bringing books to a birthday party."

Harry rolled his eyes, betraying the fact that he was feeling uncharacteristically unaffected by this whole debacle, and then glanced down at Naya.

"I'm going to let her play in that tree over there."

"You do that."

Harry nodded and looked up at the pale-faced adults sitting at the table, his face incredibly apologetic. "I'm very, very sorry about this. She means well, she's just...not too bright."

Seemingly realizing that he wasn't getting any responses, he cautiously backed away, and walked off.

"He's a parselmouth," Annette whispered faintly.

"You don't say," he said flatly.

"But how is that possible?" Lucius asked, stunned.

Sirius looked at the other adults. Annette looked downright terrified, and Lucius and Narcissa were still shocked and very white in the face. Nott had quickly regained his bearings, and was now staring at his godson's back with a calculating look in his eyes. If Sirius didn't know better, he would have thought that there was some satisfaction in the man's gaze.

He settled on shrugging. "Beats me."

Annette nodded shakily, and Lucius and Narcissa remained even paler than usual, falling silent. And Nott...

He casually reached out and picked up the glass of red wine in front of him – previously untouched – and lifted it, nodding at Sirius. "To our guest of honour."

Everyone else was still too unnerved to respond in any way, but Sirius fetched the flask from his pocket and dumped a sizable portion of his firewhisky into his own glass of wine, watching it sizzle and smoke with some satisfaction.

Narcissa took a moment to look revolted, but Sirius ignored her and lifted his glass to Nott.

"To my godson, kid that killed Voldemort."

Unfazed, Nott merely raised an eyebrow and drank.

Sirius downed his in one, shoving to the back of his mind the question of why Harry could have possibly wanted to reveal his strange ability now, of all times. Another question for another day, he supposed.

* * *

"It's actually quite fascinating," Harry was saying in between bites of cake. "I've done some reading, and the science of broom crafting is incredibly complex."

"And when are _you_ planning on making your own, Harry?" Daphne Greengrass simpered. Merlin almighty that girl was terrifying.

Hermione turned to glare at her disdainfully, and looked like she was about to say something, before Harry laughed awkwardly.

"That's a bit beyond my capabilities," he demured.

"A bit," Hermione scoffed. Sirius was getting the impression that she was more than a little disgruntled after having been forced to participate in their quidditch game.

Now it was Daphne's turn to glare at Hermione, but just as she opened her mouth, some other kid, Terry something, butted in.

"So is it primarily charmwork?"

Harry nodded. "For the most part. But there's some transfiguration involved too."

Michael something raised an eyebrow. " _Transfiguration_?"

"Speaking of transfiguration," Tracey Davis cut in, "How many of you have finished McGonnagal's summer work?"

Harry and Hermione immediately raised their hands, causing Theo Nott and Draco Malfoy to snicker.

"Figures. So what's the deal with question four?"

"It's Harry's birthday!" Daphne hissed at her, "Don't bother him about homework!"

"Think of it as a second birthday gift – Harry gets another chance to show off," Tracey said wryly.

Daphne looked ready to strangle her friend, while Harry laughed awkwardly once again.

It was a very...eclectic group, to say the least, which included Theo Nott and Draco Malfoy, Harry's closest friends from his house, and another two Slytherins, Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. Furthermore, there were two Ravenclaws in the group, Terry and Michael something. And last was the odd one out, Hermione Granger, a muggleborn Gryffindor who was struggling with post-quidditch resentment and trying very hard to not look awkward sharing the table with a couple of Death Eaters.

Death Eaters who were, like the other adults at the table, conspicuously silent and casting occasional un-Slytherin glances at his godson. Sirius, being seated at the adult side of the table, found himself feeling rather left out of the fun, and as much as he wanted to let Harry and his friends have their party - he knew he would have been royally pissed off if some adult had decided to intrude on _his_ birthday party – he eventually found that he couldn't stand it anymore.

Screw adulthood

"Anyway," he interjected cheerfully, "Who won the Quidditch game?"

Draco, Terry, Michael, and Tracey glared at Harry half-heartedly, leaving Hermione looking amused while Theo seemed quite triumphant. Daphne was once again staring at Harry adoringly. He'd honestly forgotten how scary teenage girls could get.

"My team," Harry said, trying but failing to sound neutral.

"We're switching the teams up, after cake," Tracey explained, "Harry's never lost a Quidditch game, so it's only fair everyone else gets a chance to win."

"I've never lost a Quidditch game either," Draco grouched.

"You just did," Theo retorted with a smirk, while Daphne said scathingly, "That's because Harry's on your team."

Draco glared viciously at her.

"It's not like it was a real game, though," Harry said graciously. "Besides, my broom is faster."

At that, Draco's gaze snapped toward his parents. "Harry has a Firebolt," he said pointedly.

But Lucius and Narcissa didn't respond. Their eyes were still trained on Harry.

It was then that all the fourteen year olds realized that all the adults in the room (save him) were grim faced and silent, and they fell silent as well.

A few agonizing, soundless moments ticked by, until they were interrupted by the sound of Harry laying his silver cutlery against the ornamented, silver-gilded porcelain plate that his half-eaten cake was situated on.

He cleared his throat quietly, and proceeded to speak in a voice Sirius had never heard him use before. It was soft, low, and controlled, and it sent shivers running down his spine.

"I understand it must be a shock, learning that I can speak to snakes."

Theo, Draco, and Hermione seemed completely unfazed by the statement, but the other children shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Evidently they had been hitherto uninformed also.

"It's not a common ability, and several people here personally knew another wizard who could do the same thing. I understand that it might be confusing, that you probably have questions. I'm not going to answer them." He paused, and then went on quietly, "I've gone to great lengths to keep this a secret -" Sirius refrained from snorting "- and because of my carelessness today, I've exposed myself to eight people. I'm very disappointed in myself," he admitted, his voice steady and free of any audible shame. "And I now have to ask all of you for your silence. Think of it as a birthday gift."

His godson paused, but his temporary silence was cut off by someone else.

"And why should we give you our silence?" Thaddeus Nott said smoothly, dark brown eyes boring into Harry's green ones.

Immediately his son's gaze snapped toward him, fear, confusion, and panic in his eyes.

But Harry didn't even blink. He returned Nott's stare unflinchingly; but while Nott's eyes were calm and silently challenging, Harry's gaze was not so benign. He didn't recognize the sentiment in his godson's eyes, but he was picking up on wisps of disgust and hints of anger.

It was disconcerting, he decided; he hadn't even realized Harry was capable of the emotions he was now exuding, albeit subtly.

"If this information leaves this small circle, very bad things could happen."

Nott's lips twitched and he leaned forward. "And why should I care what happens to you, Mr. Potter?"

His son looked very upset by that comment, and was now gripping his cutlery white-knuckled.

But Harry did not share his best friend's sentiment. He acknowledged Nott's ghost of a smile, and returned it with one of his own. "I didn't say the bad things would happen to _me_."

And then something truly unnerving happened. Nott laughed. It was a deep rumbling sound, and Sirius couldn't tell if it was mirthless or not.

Theo Nott looked shocked and horrified.

"You must be quite confident in your abilities, Mr. Potter."

Harry's smile was still in place, and he opened his mouth to respond, but a shaky voice stopped him from doing so.

"He doesn't have to be." It was Theo Nott, pale-faced but sitting up straight in his seat now, staring at his father challengingly. A moment later his gaze swung over to Harry, who was staring at him with wide eyes. "He has me. And he knows what I have to offer."

And suddenly Thaddeus Nott's face became closed off.

Harry's smile morphed into something truly happy when he looked at Theo, who was still staring back resolutely. Harry then looked at each of his friends. "I think it's been thoroughly demonstrated that adults are entirely too serious and that they're in no mood participate in a birthday party. I propose that we all go outside and enjoy this lovely August afternoon."

Theo immediately left his seat, saying quickly, "I'm in," just as Draco Malfoy did the same with an explosive sigh that sounded a bit like "finally".

He heard some mumbling and Tracey Davis very distinctly say, "Merlin yes."

Five minutes later the Malfoys' dining room was still silent, but joyous shouts and laughter trickled in every once and a while, as an exciting Quidditch match took place outside.

Meanwhile, Sirius was on his fourth piece of cake.

Being an adult sucked hippogriff balls.

Honestly, he wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready to sit with these people who already had children only six or seven years younger than he was when he was sentenced to life in Azkaban. They were annoying, and boring, and downright intolerable, with their scheming and judgments and taking everything entirely too seriously. No pun intended.

He'd had enough.

"Fuck being an adult."

And with that he took a swig of whiskey and marched unceremoniously out onto the veranda.

"Who wants to try some firewhiskey!"

* * *

It wasn't as bad as it sounded. If anything, he did them a favour – put them off of drinking for at least a couple more years, if their reactions were anything to go by. Daphne and Michael had both downed their shots in one go, only shuddering after; Terry and Theo did the same, but ended up having a coughing fit. Tracey spat hers out and Draco had nursed his for nearly fifteen minutes, and Hermione refused to take part at all.

"Giving alcohol to minors is a _crime_ , Mr. Black, you should be ashamed of yourself."

The most memorable response, however, had been Harry's. His godson had taken a small sip, pursed his lips, and downed the rest of the shot with a very grim look on his face; afterwards, he looked up at him very seriously, and said, "Azkaban really does destroy people. Right down to the taste buds."

* * *

The firewhiskey experiment, as Harry would later call it, had been followed by a particularly troubling declaration by Theo Nott.

"Don't worry, Harry, champagne tastes _much_ better," he'd said hoarsely.

Harry had stiffened slightly at that, no doubt anticipating the question that naturally followed.

He had raised an eyebrow. "And where exactly do you plan on procuring champagne?"

As it turned out, Theo had gotten Harry an invitation to some stupid party at some stupid German pureblood's manor that would be taking place later in August, and his godson, the dirty little Slytherin he was, RSVP'd without his knowledge.

He had not been impressed.

Harry was somewhat apologetic, but didn't seem to feel too bad about the whole thing, and seemed to take it for granted that Sirius would, in the end, not care.

He was wrong – Sirius had spent his whole life avoiding these parties, and had never thought he'd have to attend one long after his parents kicked the bucket.

He just couldn't stand it – the ostentatious grand-standing, the self-important pretense, the _purebloods_. God how he hated them. Not the fact that they were purebloods. He didn't care about blood. He cared about the fact that _they_ cared about blood, the bigoted, arrogant swots they were. They fashioned themselves as some sort of faux _nobility_ , a ruling class with nothing to rule (thank god they never resorted to titles like lord or duke or earl or some such nonsense), when they were just a the product of outdated traditions – a bunch of old, inbred families with too many secrets and too much wealth.

He wanted nothing to do with them. Despite the fact that he was now _technically_ one of them.

This was the first time that he realized that he was, in fact, the adult here, and could, in fact, punish Harry for his treacherous transgression, and put his foot down about not going, social graces be damned. However, as soon as he saw that sheepish grin...he just couldn't do it. After all, had Harry _really_ done anything wrong? He wanted to go to a party, and accepted without permission...but if it was a party with, say, one of his friends at their parents' houses (well, everywhere except Christopher Lee's Vampire Dungeon, at least), he probably wouldn't have a problem with it. No, he was simply annoyed because he didn't want to go...and he wasn't going to be the kind of guardian who punishes a kid simply because they annoy them – not after everything Harry had been though. Not after everything _he'd_ been through. God forbid that he ever resemble his mother in any way.

Sirius was beyond thankful that Harry was generally a well-behaved kid, because he didn't know how he'd go about punishing a teenage boy. Harry had been abused, so he wasn't about to employ any kind of corporeal punishment; besides, Harry was probably too old for that anyway. Time-outs and groundings were a no go, because the kid spent most of his time in his room anyway. He could take his Firebolt away, but Harry probably wouldn't mind that much, knowing him; he would just spend all day reading, which Sirius really didn't approve of. No, there was really nothing he could do. He wasn't sure if Harry was aware of his conundrum, but if he was, he wasn't saying anything about it, and he wasn't taking advantage of it either (or at least he _thought_ he wasn't), as he no doubt would have at the same age.

Indeed, that's exactly what he _had_ done. He and James never failed to take advantage of Mr. and Mrs. Potters' lenience, which he now found himself feeling a bit guilty for. All those times they'd run off to London to go bar-hopping with the fake Ids they transfigured during the school year or to the cinema (using the Potters' money, of course); all those times they'd held poker club in the drawing room while the adults weren't around and smoked pot and quioli root and did the LSD that muggleborn Ravenclaw used give them and invited those Hufflepuff girls over...wow – he really _was_ a shitty kid. Thank all that is holy that Harry was _nothing_ like him.

He'd been worried about that, at first, to be honest. According to Moony, his godson was one of those perfect students he loved to hate during his Hogwarts years. The kid didn't prank anyone, had a clean record, and was generally accepted as mild-mannered and well-behaved, with a couple of notable exceptions. In short, he had little in common with his father, Sirius's best friend. Moreover, the kid was a _Slytherin_. A ridiculously friendly Slytherin, but a snake nonetheless (a title reinforced by his odd little parsel-quirk). No, Harry Potter and Sirius Black were polar opposites.

But they got along better than he could have hoped. Harry was...well, a good kid. And not just well behaved – he was good-natured and a decent conversationalist, once you got past his layer of awkwardness and well-justified reservedness. Sure, he was sometimes way too quiet and did that creepy staring into space thing where his face would go scarily blank and his eyes would shine with a weird, alien sort of light. Other than that, though, the kid was great. Nothing like James, for sure, but still a great kid.

Yes, a day did not go by when he was not thankful for his godson – the boy who gave him hope during his twelve year stint in hell. Harry was more than a godson and a ward – he was a shot at redemption, a chance to make things right with James and Lily, the best friends he had all but killed; he was a purpose, a reason to keep himself alive and sane and a decent human being; he was his responsibility. His future.

And the least he could do was overlook a little bit of deception involving some stupid German party.

* * *

"Charming," Christopher Lee, aka Thaddeus Nott, said blandly as he glanced around the entrance room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

"Thanks!" he replied with a cheeky grin, "We like to cultivate a positive atmosphere here at Grimmauld Place. But...on that note, keep your voices down down here...the old hag might hear you."

Unamused, Christopher Lee only quirked an eyebrow.

"Thanks for having me here, Mr. Black," Theo spoke up politely from beside him.

"Hey, no problem, kid. And like I said back at the party, call me Sirius. Any friend of Harry's is a friend of mine."

Theo gave him half a grin. "Sure. Where's Harry?"

"In his bedroom. Top floor. It's the room with the sign that says, _'Do not enter without the explicit permission of Harry James Potter. Intruders may be envenomed or eaten alive. You have been warned'."_

Theo raised an eyebrow. "Sounds about right." He glanced up at his father, who nodded slightly, after which he smiled and said, "Thanks Sirius!", before he turned tail and ran up the stairs.

"I will return at the same time tomorrow to pick Theodore up," Christopher Lee said blankly.

"Sure, sounds like a plan, Chr-Nott."

The man did not reply; instead, he turned on his heel and marched out the door from whence he came.

Sirius sighed in relief. He didn't know what it was about the man, but he _really_ didn't like him. It wasn't the same as it was with Lucy or Snape, the other two filthy Death Eaters he was reasonably well acquainted with – Nott was...threatening. Sirius was enough of a man to admit – at least to himself – that Thaddeus Nott was an intimidating man, to say the least. If Frank Longbottom's testimony had been anything to go by, he likely wouldn't make it in a duel against the much older man. Not to mention, he just _looked_ scary.

Theo wasn't anything like him, though – probably took after his mother more. The boy's much more delicate features were always half hidden behind a curtain of chestnut brown hair, contrasting with the elder Nott's slicked-back salt-and-pepper; not to mention, his frame and posture failed to exude anywhere near the amount of power and confidence that his father's did.

According to Harry, the late Mrs. Nott had passed away years ago...so clearly, young Theo had actively avoided being too influenced by his Death Eater father.

A good sign to say the least.

* * *

He spent the next couple of hours in his room tinkering with his motorcycle – it was almost done – but eventually he got bored and decided to go practice Stairway to Heaven on Angela, his beautiful Gibson guitar.

He was surprised, however, to hear music already coming from the drawing room – a waltz, sounding like it was being projected from one of those little music orbs you could buy at trinket shops and toy stores. As he approached the room, he heard voices from within.

"Ok, I'll follow, you lead -"

"Shouldn't _you_ lead? I'm the one who doesn't know what he's doing."

"You're going to have to learn to lead. This is what you were talking about, Harry, it's like anything else - it's best to push you off the deep end right from the start."

"I'm starting to feel intimidated now."

Theo laughed. "The great Harry Potter, intimidated by a simple waltz? Yeah, right. It's too late for me to fall for your lies, Harry."

He heard Harry chuckle.

"So, you put your left hand on my waist, yeah, like that, and I put my right had on your shoulder. Now, there are three steps in a waltz, and we're going to try forward forward back."

There was a long pause.

"Right. Do I really have to learn this, Theo?"

"Of course you do. You're the one who wanted to go to the stupid party. Ergo, you should have to suffer like the rest of us had to."

He heard his godson sigh. "I suppose that's fair."

"Of course it is. Now follow me – forward forward back, forward forward back -"

"Right! Excellent! I think I can do this!"

"Of course you can, you're brilliant," the other boy said fondly.

He chuckled, shaking his head. Whether it was an abnormally close friendship or young love*, he didn't know, but he was relieved Harry, the odd kid that he was, had managed to find genuine, loyal friends. James and Lily would be pleased.

* * *

"Sirius."

Sirius set down his glass of scotch and snapped shut the copy of _Batman: Year One_ that Harry had lent him, walking over to the fireplace, keeping his footsteps as light as possible.

"Leonard. You're five minutes late."

The face in the fireplace quirked an eyebrow. "You'll excuse me if I put security ahead of punctuality."

"Consider yourself excused."

Leonard chuckled. "How's parenthood?"

"Not as difficult as I thought it would be. He's a good kid. But you're not checking in to chat about my godson."

Leonard nodded. "I'm not. Nothing positive to report, unfortunately. The trail went cold just west of Newcastle. No sign of him."

The lights in the room flickered. "Fuck!" Sirius made to slam his fist against the mantle, but stopped short – Harry was sleeping, and he didn't want to wake him.

Leonard hesitated. "I'm going to move south, but he could be anywhere, and I have other jobs on the go, so -"

"No, no," Sirius cut in, "He _could_ be anywhere, but he won't be. He lived for twelve years as a rat, but he did it as a _pet_ , in a magical family. He could have disappeared into the wilderness – he could have gone to Europe, America, anywhere – but he stayed here, in Britain, in the wizarding world, where the risk of getting caught was the highest, because he was _comfortable_ here. He won't be anywhere – he'll be around people, around wizards. He'll be _somewhere_ with _someone –_ someone who he thinks can protect him _._ Filthy rodent. As for those other jobs – I'll double the fee I'm paying you now."

Leonard shook his head. "I may be a crook, Sirius, but I'd never cheat a friend out of their money. Keep your money – buy your godson something nice – and I'll be in touch."

Sirius nodded absently as the face in the fire disappeared.

It was difficult, not being able to search himself, relying on Leonard to do all the legwork for him – but the Ministry and St Mungo's were still keeping an eye on him, and he needed to think about Harry; he'd never abandon him again. Harry would always come first.

But they would find Peter. They would. And when they did...the traitor, the rat, that pathetic, weak creature, betrayer – he would pay for what he had done. He'd swear it on James and Lily's grave – Peter Pettigrew would pay for what he had done.

* * *

*Just to make sure anyone doesn't take this too seriously - this isn't my way of saying there will be slash in the future. It just kind of highlights that there's something really...domestic about Harry and Theo's friendship - while Harry's friendship with Hermione manifests in arguments and intellectual conversations and projects, Theo is the one he's with, like, all the time; he's the one that tells Harry to eat his food and get his sleep and whatnot - and I thought that might just be how it came off to an outsider like Sirius.

Anyway, let me know what you think, if you please :)


	5. Schloss Adelaide

**Disclaimer:** Despite how much work I put into this, I don't own any of it.

 **AN1:** Because I love you all so much, I'm posting a nice long chapter only a week after my last one! Please do enjoy - but read the important AN below first.

 **AN2:** Question, for all you respectable members of the fanfiction community: given how inconsistent my posting has been with this fic, would it be bad taste for me to start posting chapters from another story alongside this one? I may have started another fanfiction...

 **IMPORTANT AN:** The first short section of this chapter has some sexual content which is non-consensual. It's not a _sex scene_ or anything, but it's something that is clearly leading to one. In my personal opinion, the actual sexual content is mild enough that this is no different from a plain ol' (albeit quite graphic) torture scene, but if you're especially sensitive to this kind of thing...well, just skip to the place where the first section-break-line-thing is (I placed it there just for you!).

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Schloss Adelaide**

"Tom...Tom...no...please stop...!" she gasped out, her voice hoarse and thin.

Blood was running down her jawline, trickling from the place he had bitten her lip, and trails strangely shaped bruises were blossoming all over her breasts, arms, and shoulders.

What a fascinating curse that was. _Bestiola Insero..._ so violating, so...intimate.

Her chest was heaving heavily, red burns streaking across her ribs where his thin fingers had slid over her pale skin, after he had cast a wandless _flagrante_ curse on them. And her eyes – her pale blue orbs were tinted scarlet by the hot tears that were streaming from them, and alight with perfect, blissful fear as he wrapped his right hand around her long, slender neck, relishing in the pounding of her panicked pulse under his finger tips.

"Sh...sh...it will be alright darling – everything -" his left hand snaked downward over her abdomen. "- will be -" his fingers danced around the edge of her lacy knickers. "- alright."

"No...no..."

She was crying now, sobs wracking her entire frame. She began struggling again, futilely trying to push him away or kick him with what little strength she had left, and he was forced to shift his weight onto her legs, and grab both her wrists and pin them to the bed. He could just cast an _immobulus_ or an _incarcerus_ , he supposed, but it was truly amusing to watch her squirm and tremble so. There was something...physically fulfilling about it.

If he was going to go through all this fuss, he was damn well going to do it properly. It was unlikely he'd go through the trouble again, after all.

"Now, now, Celeste, didn't you say you loved me?"

"Please Tom...no..."

"No? You don't love me anymore?"

"Yes...no...please, Tom, I love you...please...no more..."

"Didn't you say you'd do anything for me?"

"I take it back," she wept, "I take it back."

"You take it back?" he said quietly.

She stopped struggling, and looked him in the eye, crimson stained blue desperate and pleading. She nodded miserably.

He leaned in close, until his nose was nearly touching hers, and her blood was dripping from his lip onto her chin.

"It's too late for that now," he hissed gleefully, taking a moment to relish in the despair in her eyes. "Not to worry, though, darling, I know exactly the thing -" he let go of her wrists and summoned his wand, pointing it straight at her face as she froze in terror.

" _\- crucio."_

* * *

"NO!" Harry screamed hoarsely as he was cruelly jolted awake, bolting up as though his pillow was burning him. "Get away - run-"

His breathing was ragged, and his skin was on fire and drenched in sweat and he felt like there were bugs crawling underneath his skin. Spiders...beetles...something skittering around disgustingly, burrowing deep in his flesh. _Bestiola insero_. Whas that what it felt like?

 _:What the_ fuck _was that?:_ Harry snarled in parseltongue, thoughtlessly borrowing Khor's vocabulary.

 _Fucking,_ came Tom's ever so helpful reply. He paused. _It was an experiment._

His knuckles were white as he gripped his sheets, and he could feel tears burning his eyes. He'd had this kind of dream before – last week, in fact – but it wasn't like _this_. It wasn't so...savage.

"What _was_ that?" he said again, weakly, as his entire frame shivered.

 _I told you once, didn't I? The second time was_ much _more entertaining. Albeit more trouble than it was worth._

Harry shuddered, not even daring to think of when he might bear witness to _part two_. Oh god, he was going to be sick...

No, no, he was ok - he just needed to...not move.

He had read enough to know that boys his age often had...embarrassing dreams, usually about girls from the television or from school; it was...normal, healthy even. That's what he'd read. But Harry had never once dreamt of any girl he'd ever seen on the television, or any of the girls he went to Hogwarts with; no, all he got was flashes of memories, Tom's memories. They weren't nice; they weren't pleasant – Tom had never been a tender person by any measure, and didn't seem to tolerate any physical contact that wasn't painful or at least uncomfortable for the other involved – but none of them...none of them had been like this.

He felt dirty. He felt disgusting. But worst of all – he felt good, like he always did after dreaming about casting the cruciatus curse, but...better. His skin was burning with vivacious electricity and his pulse was quick, and then there was that sickeningly wonderful feeling deep within him...

"Harry!"

Three sharp knocks startled him from his trance, and he stared at the door, terrified for a moment. Sirius had heard him.

Quickly, he wrapped himself in his quilt in an attempt to disguise his humiliating physical response to his dream, and stumbled toward the door, stomach lurching as he did.

Sure enough, Sirius was standing there, an immensely concerned look on his face.

"You alright, kiddo?"

"Y-yeah...just...b-bad dream."

Sympathy was written all over Sirius's face, along with something else – something uncharacteristically grim.

"Was it about Voldemort?"

Harry, shocked, took a step backwards, feeling as though all the wind had been knocked out of his chest. How did he -?

"Your scar," his godfather said quietly, "It's quite red."

Immediately, Harry's had flew up to his forehead, and sure enough, the curse scar was burning hot, and slightly inflamed.

"Hey, why don't we...go down to the drawing room, we'll have Dobby bring us a drink."

"No, Sirius, it's al-"

"I insist," the man said more firmly, "Come on, clear your head."

Nodding meekly, he followed behind, wrapping his blanket more tightly around him.

"Dobby?" Sirius called immediately as they entered the dark drawing room, which Sirius lit with a flick of his wand.

Immediately, the elf popped into the room, beaming. "Master Sirius?"

But then he gasped, no doubt seeing Harry's sorry state. "Master Harry! Has Master Harry had another nightmare?"

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Is this common, Dobby?"

Yes, unfortunately - though he no longer dreamed of Tom's past every night - sometimes, he' make it weeks without a single dream - as he grew older the dreams had taken on a distinctly...darker tone. He rarely dreamed of anything remotely pleasant anymore.

Dobby nodded miserably. "Master Harry often asks Dobby to bring him water when he has had nightmares."

Sirius pursed his lips, but Harry, starting to get annoyed, grumbled, "I'm still here, you know."

Sirius nodded. "Good point, Harry, as always. Dobby, could you wake Kreacher up and tell him to make his special hot chocolate?"

Harry stared at him, bewildered, and the passing thought that he might still be dreaming flitted through his mind. "You want _Kreacher_ to make something?"

Sirius shrugged. "He makes a mean cuppa hot chocolate. Just...make sure to tell him it's for Harry."

"Anything for Master Sirius?"

"Just a bottle of whiskey, and a glass," Sirius said.

Dobby smiled brilliantly, and disappeared for a moment, and a moment later, a bottle of whiskey and a small glass was sitting on the coffee table.

Harry eyed the bottle distastefully. "Didn't you already have some with dinner? And when I say some, I mean a fair bit."

Sirius grinned and collapsed onto the sofa, pouring himself a drink. "No such thing as too much whiskey."

"I'm...pretty sure that's not true."

Sirius ignored him. "Come on, Harry, sit down."

Slowly, Harry obeyed.

Just as he was sitting down, Kreacher appeared, cup of steaming hot chocolate held between both of his wrinkly hands. He spared a moment to glare at Sirius, mumbling something about 'filthy blood-traitors', before he set Harry's cup on the table.

"Thank you Kreacher," Harry said quietly.

Kreacher looked at him adoringly. "Not at all...Kreacher lives to serve...Kreacher bids Master Harry a good night..." And with that, after sparing one more glare for Sirius, the elf popped off.

"Bloody incredible," Sirius said, shaking his head disbelievingly. "I'll never understand how you do it."

"Saying thank you is a good start," Harry mumbled.

Sirius chuckled, and picked up his whiskey bottle, splashing some into Harry's hot chocolate

"Sirius!"

Sirius chuckled. "It'll help you sleep later."

Cautiously, Harry took the cup and sniffed, wrinkling his nose before he took a small sip. "You ruined my hot chocolate," he complained.

"It's not _ruined,"_ Sirius said, rolling his eyes, "Don't be so dramatic. It's just been grown-up-ified."

"That's not a word, Sirius."

"It is now."

"That's...not how it works."

"Yeah, I guess you'd know, now that you've been grown-up-ified."

Harry heaved a deep sigh, taking another sip of his grown-up-ified hot chocolate.

Sirius downed his glass of whiskey and poured himself another one. "D'you, uh, want to talk about it?"

Harry grimaced. "Not really. I'd rather just...try to forget."

Sirius nodded slowly. "How often does this happen?"

"It...happens enough."

"Do you know what sets it off?"

Harry shrugged. "Sleep."

"No kidding." Sirius sighed. "Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?"

Harry looked at him strangely. "To what?"

"To help."

Harry smiled at him sadly. "I don't think so, Sirius. This is enough."

Sirius pursed his lips. "Want to watch a movie?"

Harry blinked. "Now?"

"Sure."

 _Absolutely not,_ Tom snapped.

Harry offered him a half-smile, suddenly quite pleased with the idea after hearing Tom's displeasure. He was entitled to feel a little vindictive right now. "Which episode of Star Trek were we on?"

 _I hope you are not under the illusion that this experience will be pain-free._

 _See if I care, Tom_ , he wanted to snap back.

"Oh! The one with the Tribbles!"

"The what's-its?"

"You'll see."

 _Unfortunately._

"Fair enough."

* * *

Harry looked at himself critically in the mirror. He was dressed in his new dress robes – a tidy, well-fitted black suit with a long overcoat – and his recently trimmed jet-black hair was about as tame as it was ever going to get, despite still sticking out this way and that in stubborn waves. He was wearing his new glasses, which only slightly tempered the appraising crimson stare following his every movement as Tom observed his most recent attempt to play dress-up.

Red eyes aside, he didn't look too bad.

"Sirius? Are you ready to go?" he called as he stepped out of his bedroom.

Sirius stumbled out of his bedroom as well, looking rather disgruntled in his own dark blue dress robes.

"Unfortunately," he grumbled.

Harry smirked and looked over his shoulder.

 _:I'm going now.:_

Khor merely glared at him, but Naya perked up at his voice. _:Are you sure you can't bring me along?:_

She'd taken to asking that ever since he enlisted her help at his birthday party.

The whole thing had gone over even better than he'd hoped it would; he wasn't aware, when he and Tom planned it, that Thaddeus Nott and Annette Greengrass would be present as well, and in this case, the more the merrier. While it probably was not to their advantage to reveal his ability to the general public, the fact that Professor Dumbledore had already found out gave them some leeway in who they could afford to tell, as secrecy was no longer a matter of survival.

Despite the fact that preventing the master soul from gaining a body was near the top of their priority list, they were already putting contingency plans together to prepare for the possibility of their failure. At this point, they were painfully limited in what they could do to oppose a fully-resurrected Voldemort, but they _could_ destabilize the Dark Lord's power base, to some degree, at least. His parseltongue ability being proof of his status as the only remaining Heir of Slytherin was what Tom had used initially to establish his legitimacy as a leader; calling into question the validity of this proof was a good way to start planting the seeds of doubt in the minds of those who would be Voldemort's key resources...like the Malfoys.

 _:Afraid not.:_

 _:Oh well, it was worth a try. Have fun!:_

 _:Ugh...will you cunts just shut up? Trying to sleep here.:_

Harry rolled his eyes. _:Behave, you two.:_

Khor made the snake equivalent of a snorting sound.

As Harry marched purposefully down the stairs, he heard Sirius lagging behind, grumbling under his breath, not unlike Kreacher often would when he and Sirius were in the same room.

When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Harry led the way to the room with the fireplace and took a fist full of floo powder.

"Repeat after me," Harry began patronizingly, "Schloss Adelaide"

"Schloss Adelaide," Sirius grumbled.

"Good for you," Harry said, smirking a bit at Sirius's indignant scowl, before he cast the powder into the fireplace. "Schloss Adelaide!"

A moment later he was on his hands and knees, thankfully having prevented himself from landing flat on his face. Stumbling to his feet, he dusted himself off with a sour look on his face. Was he _ever_ going to get that right?

As he straightened his clothes out his eyes went wide, just as he stepped fully into the room he found himself in. Three little chandeliers hung from the ceiling, dimly lit, their light reflecting off the white ceiling, floor, and walls, which were all trimmed with gold.

Stepping forward, just as he heard the fireplace roar again behind him, Harry found in front of him a wide, arched doorway which opened into a cavernous room unlike any other he'd seen.

While Hogwarts was imbued with a kind of rustic beauty, a meaningful whimsy carved into grey stone, dust, and ancient furnishings, Schloss Adelaide was a completely different kind of grandiose. The walls were pristine, and evenly lined with landscapes, all of a similar impressionistic style – romantic, dreamlike depictions of rolling hills and fields of flowers. In fact, the whole place was rather dreamlike, with the vaulted ceiling gilded with gold, lit by little fairy lights hovering above like tiny stars. The hall was massive, perhaps even larger than the Great Hall, and filled with guests, all dressed in opulent garb – black velvets and crimson silks and emerald chiffons, robes and gowns finely spun and trimmed with lace and jewels. A string quartet was reciting an aria in the far left corner, in front of which were a few pairs of dancing couples, but the rest of the guests were filling the room with ambient chatter. To the right was a large table overflowing with fine foods and drink (and not far away was what appeared to be a champagne fountain), and small platters of what Harry assumed were more champagne and h'ordeurves were charmed to hover carefully between guests.

It was like something out a fairy tale – filled to the brim with a kind of magic Harry was unfamiliar with.

"Isn't it dreadful?" came Sirius's voice from behind him.

"Yeah...dreadful..." Harry mused absently. He started, and turned to face Sirius. "I'm going to go locate Theo."

Sirius gaped. "You're abandoning me already?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Find some fair maiden to harass." He suddenly felt disgust coil in his stomach at his own words, recalling the dream he'd had the night before. He dismissed the thought quickly, though. "You'll be fine."

Sirius huffed. "Fine. Get out of here before I hex you."

Harry grinned impishly and slipped into the crowd.

It took some time – time occupied with navigating the treacherous sea of long gowns and robes and floating platters – before he saw anyone he recognized, but he did eventually locate Theo, standing beside his father, looking uncharacteristically bored and stoic. His expression did a 180 when he saw Harry approaching, however. Immediately, he forsook his father's side and pulled Harry into a hug, apparently extremely pleased to see him.

When he released him, he looked him over from head to toe, eyebrows disappearing above his long chestnut fringe. "Look at you...you look...amazing, actually."

Harry chuckled. "You don't have to sound so surprised."

Theo rolled his eyes.

Harry turned to Mr. Nott, who was staring at him with his unreadable dark eyes.

"Mr. Nott."

The man nodded. "Mr. Potter."

Harry looked over at the man standing across from Mr. Nott – a tall man with greying hair dressed in some thick, stark robes. They appeared to have been in the midst of a very tense discussion, considering the stiffness of their forms.

"Professor Igor Karkaroff," Mr. Nott introduced, gesturing at the man, "Karkaroff, this is Harry Potter...a close friend of my son's."

The newly dubbed Igor Karkaroff was staring at Harry with widened eyes, and for a moment, he almost looked alarmed.

"Professor Karkaroff is the Headmaster of the Durmstrang Institute," Mr. Nott continued.

 _Traitor..._ he heard Tom hissing in his mind.

Harry's eyes flickered with recognition. He held out his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Professor Karkaroff."

The man cautiously shook the offered hand. "And you as well, Mr. Potter," he said in heavily accented English.

"Father," Theo suddenly interjected, "May I go introduce Harry to grandmother and grandfather?"

Mr. Nott looked at his son with a raised eyebrow. "Do what you will."

Theo smiled weakly. "Come on, Harry."

Harry nodded respectfully at the two older man before making to follow Theo, who was already walking away.

"Thank _Merlin_ you showed up," he breathed.

"Was it really that bad?"

Theo nodded avidly. "My father _despises_ Karkaroff, and Karkaroff's terrified of my father."

"I suppose that's what happens when you sell out your comrades to save your own skin," Harry mused.

"You know about that?" Theo asked, surprised.

"I read up on the Death Eater trials a while back."

"Right."

"What I don't understand is why they're even talking to each other..." Harry wondered.

"To keep up appearances. Karkaroff's a relatively well respected figure now, and it would look weird if they didn't greet each other."

Harry didn't really understand, so he chose to change the subject. "So...we're going to meet your grandparents?"

"Oh Merlin, no," Theo said with a chuckle, "I just wanted a valid excuse to get away."

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "What are we going to do then?"

Theo smiled conspiratorially. "We are going to eat large quantities of disgustingly expensive food and steal champagne when nobody's looking."

Harry's lips quirked upward. "Sounds like a worthy adventure."

"High praise coming from you."

"You'd better be flattered."

"Oh, I am."

As it turned out, Theo's original description in his letter was completely accurate. There were _fungii_ and _snails_ and _fish eggs_ on crackers, and many, many other weird dishes he'd never even thought existed. Sure, Theo had told him about h'oerdrves, but he'd honestly thought his friend had been less than honest about that one.

"Are these _flakes of gold_?" Harry asked incredulously as he held a particularly conspicuous confection up to his face for inspection.

Theo picked up two and popped them into his mouth at the same time. "Yup."

" _Real_ gold?"

"Yup."

Harry put down the offending item in revulsion. "That can't be healthy."

Theo shrugged, reaching over to pick up a small oyster shell and then loudly slurping the contents out, drawing the glares of two elderly witches conversing a couple of metres away.

"That was incredibly rude," Harry said disdainfully.

Theo looked quite pleased with himself. "But oh so tasty."

Harry sighed and turned back to the seedy crackers topped with cream and smoked salmon, which he'd taken a liking to. He gingerly picked one up and took a bite out of it, smiling slightly at the delicate taste.

When he'd finished, he turned to Theo, who was cleaning off a plate of something strangely shaped and orange. "So what now?"

"Now, we find the champagne fountain – yes, there's a fountain -"

"I saw," Harry put in wryly.

"- and loiter around, waiting for an opening, and then -"

Suddenly he froze, face paling.

Harry looked at him, alarmed. "What is it?" he asked urgently.

"Madeleine Gareau," Theo whispered.

Harry blinked. "Who?"

Theo only grimaced, so Harry followed his line of sight and looked over his shoulder to see a pretty blonde girl in a pink dress marching over to them purposefully.

"She wants to marry me, I think," Theo hissed, "Last Christmas she asked how many kids I wanted."

Harry grimaced.

"Shit Harry, I gotta run – rendezvous at the champagne fountain -"

And with that he was gone, having fled with a dexterity Harry hadn't known he possessed.

Harry sighed and looked around, trying to spot someone he knew. Millicent and Tracey's families weren't really into this sort of thing, and Pansy was sick. Zabini was in Italy, and Draco had proudly proclaimed that his father had agreed to take him to the Quidditch World Cup instead. That left -

"Oh Harry, you look..."

It was Daphne's voice, and when he turned around, sure enough, he saw her standing behind him, her cheeks decidedly rosy. Her blonde hair was perfectly curled and her face, he noted, was quite tastefully made up with, well, something that made her look more elegant and doll-like than usual. More...grown up. Her eyelashes were darker than usual and her lips were red, her cheeks dusted with a silver shimmer.

He looked at her top to bottom, eyes drawn to the silver embroidered dress she was wearing, hugging her waist in a way that accentuated the hips he hadn't realized she had.

 _For god's sake, control yourself, you imbecile. Must you be so vulgar?_

For a moment he froze, and was overcome by horror and a wave of nausea when he realized what he was doing - he didn't mean to! It was the dress! The dress was distracting him! - but managed to recover quickly.

"- not as good as you," he commented truthfully.

Daphne's blush grew, and for a moment, she looked quite flustered, before she gathered herself, and said composedly, "Why, thank you."

Harry grinned at her, a little awkwardly.

"Enjoying yourself so far?" she questioned coolly, apparently able to force her blush away with sheer will-power.

"Some of the crackers were really good." It was the first thing that came to mind, but he knew how stupid it must have sounded.

He sensed extreme annoyance coming from Tom, who was no doubt very unimpressed.

"Oh yes, they're amazing," she said breathily, and he got the distinct impression that she had not, in fact, tried any of the food. Why not, he couldn't fathom. There were some excellent options.

"Have you danced with anyone yet?" Daphne asked, her voice sweet like honey.

"Er, no." To be honest, he'd completely forgotten about the dancing, despite the growing group of people in the middle of the room doing just that.

His eyes flickered over to the dancers, who all looked incredibly fluid and elegant and really quite unattainable.

"Neither have I," Daphne commented.

"Oh."

Daphne cleared her throat.

He blinked.

She cleared her throat again.

"Oh!" Harry exclaimed, suddenly understanding what he was supposed to do. He held out his hand. "May I have this dance, Miss Greengrass?"

She beamed at him, and looked like she was holding in a shiver of excitement as she took his hand. "Why yes, Mr. Potter."

And with that – well, it was a blur, really. The whole time he was incredibly focused on just making his body move in a remotely fluid way, while taking care not to lead Daphne into a disaster. It was _hard_ , and truth be told, he didn't like it one bit. It was one thing dancing with Theo in his drawing room, but this was a whole other ordeal. There was _so much at stake_ , with so little return. Suffice it to say, as soon as he could, he excused himself.

"I'm afraid I must go, er, find the loo," he said awkwardly once the dance had ended.

Daphne blushed for the 37th time. "Oh, yes, of course, I'll see you later, then?"

Harry forced a grin onto his face. "Of course!"

And with that, he darted into the crowd, eventually locating a pillar where he could lean against and remain fairly hidden while he waited for The. But just as he was backing against it stepping back around it, he realized he was stepping right onto someone else's foot.

He spun around, finding a man standing right behind him, watching the party impassively, comfortably under a haphazard disillusionment charm.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, sir. I didn't see you standing there." He paused, and then held out his hand. "I'm Harry Potter."

The man, who he could see more clearly now, smiled amusedly at him. He was an elderly wizard – though not nearly as old as Professor Dumbledore; perhaps a couple of decades older than Thaddeus Nott, actually – with black, sleeked back hair, generously dusted with grey. "Octavius Winter," the man replied with a tame, but prominent German accent.

Harry's eyes widened as he shook the man's hand. "Herr Winter," he said respectfully, "Thank you very much for inviting me to your party. My guardian and I are very grateful for the opportunity to be here."

Herr Winter glanced over to where Sirius was standing in a corner with a glass of champagne in each hand, surrounded by a crowd of preening women.

"Yes, your guardian seems to be enjoying himself," Herr Winter said with some humour in his voice.

"He's no doubt regaling them with tales of his daring escape from Azkaban," Harry said with a slight grin.

Herr Winter chuckled. "A worthy story, I'm sure. I am glad Mr. Black is enjoying himself," he said knowingly.

"It's a lovely party. You have a lovely home, Herr Winter."

The man smiled, his smile still amused. "Lovely and cursed."

Harry's eyes widened. "It's cursed? With what?"

"Oh, something very ancient – a spell that renders this place invisible and insubstantial – barely real at all. It is only when the moon is full that it truly exists – otherwise no living being may exit or enter at will."

"I've never heard of such a curse."

"I would think not - it is very ancient magic...the work a maddened priestess...my ancestor, incidentally."

Harry nodded slowly. "So you don't actually live here then?"

"Oh, I do."

Harry frowned. "Why, if I may ask?"

"It is my home," Herr Winter said simply, smile unmoved, "I was born in it, have lived lived in it, and in a few decades' time, I will die in it."

Harry smiled back at him. "I suppose that would be nice...dying in a place you can so thoroughly call home..."

Herr Winter chuckled again. "You know, Mr. Potter, when most people hear one speak of their own death in a casual conversation, they find themselves at a loss for words. Death is not a topic many feel at ease with discussing."

"A very wise wizard once told me that death is but the next great adventure, sir. I hope I did not imply that I take it lightly, however," Harry said hurriedly.

"The next great adventure...life after death. Are you a religious man, Mr. Potter?"

"There are no gods. There is only death."

Herr Winter quirked an eyebrow and he froze, realizing that he had spoken out loud. Vying for a quick save, he added, "Or more optimistically: Dead are all gods – now we want the Übermensch to live."

Herr Winter chuckled. "Nietzsche – how very quaint."

Harry's lips quirked upward.

"Are you a philosopher, Mr. Potter?"

"Isn't everybody?"

"Indeed, indeed. And somewhat versed in the continental tradition, if you go around quoting Nietzsche, I suppose."

Harry shrugged. "He's very easy to quote. Especially when it comes to the Übermenchen – which he coined, of course."

"Fascinating concept, isn't it?"

Harry's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes! And incredibly important too."

Herr Winter stared at him for a moment. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, who do you suppose the Übermenchen are?"

Harry blinked. "Us," he said as though it were obvious.

The older man looked at him with raised eyebrows. "That is a dangerous opinion to hold, Mr. Potter, especially in my country."

Harry frowned. "Why?"

"I should think that would be obvious. But perhaps not – you are maybe to young to remember." He paused. "To this day, Gellert Grindelwald's revolution haunts my country and many others. His war only just touched your island, and light touches are easily forgotten – but the grip he had on the Germanic and Scandinavian nations of Europe will not be easily forgotten."

The animated look slipped off of Harry's face. "I see."

"I met the man, you know, on multiple occasions – passionate, charismatic, and ambitious. He too saw the magical race as superior, and sought to rule over the muggles. He was not like your own Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort -"

Harry's eyes widened.

"- yes, I fear not a mere name, my young friend, and I will say it gladly. But perhaps that is because his war only just touched my home just as Grindelwald's only just touched yours."

Harry nodded soberly.

"But as I was telling you, Grindelwald was not like Lord Voldemort. He did not wish to lay waste to the muggle world, you see – for he did not abhor it. He simply thought us to be above them. He claimed to want to rule as a benevolent king, over a subservient inferior race. His ambition wrought much destruction – he toppled governments, systematically tore countries apart, and killed thousands. In fact, before Albus Dumbledore defeated him, we were nearly ready to yield to him – many European witches and wizards were not altogether opposed to his views, and resistence against him was a mere matter of national pride to many. The fact that Grindelwald sunk his claws so deeply into our lives shames my generation, many of whom supported him, if only silently."

"Did you, sir?"

"One does not ask such things in polite company, Mr. Potter."

Harry blushed. "Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to offend."

But Herr Winter was unfazed. "Not at all. Just a piece of friendly advice."

"Thank you sir."

The man nodded. "The German Ministry of Magic, along with several others, have been very...proactive in repairing the damage that Grinelwald did, and ensuring that such a man will never rise from the ashes of what he destroyed. There are many who believe in the superiority of witches and wizards, Mr. Potter, but they are not nearly so outspoken about it as many are in your country, for there is very much a stigma - both tangible and intangible - surrounding the overt expression of such beliefs. It is a curious hypocrisy."

"Hypocrisy, sir?"

"Indeed. You have heard of Durmstrang, I suppose? I believe the headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, is here somewhere..."

Harry nodded. "I met him very briefly."

"Oh excellent. Well, if you know of Durmstrang, you likely know the two things it is famous for."

"Teaching the Dark Arts and not accepting muggleborn students."

Herr Winter nodded. "That is correct. Now, because of Durmstrang's policies, it receives no state funding, and this is not likely to change, under the current headmaster. However, many families choose to send their students to Durmstrang even while verbally admonishing its policies. They continue to support an institution that they, under the influence of an exceptionally proactive government, should abandon. And as the years wear on, the situation becomes more complex, as the younger generations are taught conflicted ethics and grow disillusioned with a government and educational institution that they feel they cannot trust. Do you have any idea why this is the case, Mr. Potter?"

"Because certain governments chose to react to a crisis by forcing change that the people were not yet ready for."

"Exactly so. And our politics continues to be a fine balancing act, ever so haunted by a shameful history which we are desperate not to repeat...at many costs. Now, do you see why reciting such philosophies of the superiority of wizardkind might be considered less than proper amidst current company?"

Harry was frowning again. "Not entirely, sir. You see, I don't think the Übermensch is meant to be the leader of a master race. I think that the close association of Nietzsche with Grindelwald and Nazism is to some extent misplaced."

"Oh?"

"I don't think superiority needs to directly imply domination."

"A fascinating proposition, Mr. Potter."

"Thank you, sir."

Herr Winter's lips twitched. "But I must ask you to clarify."

Harry nodded. "If the Übermenschen truly surpass and transcend humanity, they wouldn't need to dominate them, would they? They would just need to separate themselves so they could live the way they want to. It's not about mastery...it's about freedom and progress."

 _Spoken like a true politician, Harry. You play your role well._

Harry refrained from frowning. He was being sincere.

Meanwhile, Herr Winter looked at him appraisingly.

Harry stared at his companion concernedly. "Did I say something wrong, sir?"

The man chuckled, and Harry was beginning to wonder if he was really much more amusing than he thought he was. "Not at all, Mr. Potter, I merely find myself...refreshed, speaking with you. Society, you see, becomes tiring after a time. That is the problem with being old. The young have little to offer but the old have offered all they have to give. So it is a luxury, for me, to converse with a young man such as yourself who, in but a few sentences, has offered me something I did not expect to hear. You will find that age has the strangest way of turning the simplest of things into luxuries."

"I suppose that could be both a blessing and a curse."

"Oh? And how do you suppose it is a blessing?"

"Well," Harry began thoughtfully, "There are things we take for granted. Lots of things, often things that seem small, that we for granted – and for good reason, because being deprived of these things would seem to lead to...a life that might be less than worth living. But...there is something very...special about remembering the first meal you enjoyed, or the first place you had to call home, don't you think? So maybe being deprived of a luxury might actually be just as valuable an experience as having it in the first place."

Herr Winter stared at him for a long moment. "I suppose you speak from experience, Mr. Potter."

Harry could feel his cheeks heat up, and for a moment, he thought he might have said too much.

"I admit that I was very pleased when Theodore Nott mentioned that his grandson was a close associate of yours, Mr. Potter, because I have found myself curious about you for some time now."

"Sir?"

"I never thought much of the legend of the Boy Who Lived – I will speak plainly and say that I do not believe that a mere infant was the cause of the Dark Lord's downfall. Surely other powers were at work."

 _Finally, someone with at least marginal intelligence._

"I agree, sir."

The man smiled slightly. "However, when, two years ago, I heard about the incident with the Philosopher's Stone, of the Dark Lord's attempt to rise again, and of the part you played – well, then I found myself curious...especially after I heard the...unofficial account."

Harry frowned. "Unofficial account, sir?"

"It is not every day I hear of an eleven year old boy capable of murdering his professor."

Harry stiffened.

"My curiosity grew when a year ago I heard a rumour that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened at Hogwarts, and that it was Harry Potter who put a stop to it.

"Now, as a graduate of Durmstrang, I never went to Hogwarts myself, but I have enough close associates who did to know that these are the actions of a 'Gryffindor' – and yet, I had heard you had been sorted into Slytherin; it was quite a scandal, for a while, actually," the man said humorously, "That is how one knows, by the way, when we have had peace for too long – when news of a Potter being sorted into Slytherin House can be considered a scandal of any kind."

Harry found himself laughing a bit at that.

"But it was not until this year that I came to understand why, exactly, such a brave, and presumably selfless young man had been sorted into a house that praises bravery only selectively and disdains selflessness."

"You read my letter," Harry concluded.

Herr Winter nodded. "I will not offer your condolences for what you have been though, because truth be told, I am not invested in your well-being, and I will not disrespect you by pretending to be."

Harry smiled wryly. "I appreciate it, sir."

"I thought you might. I would think that you have received enough empty sympathy for a lifetime by now."

"You would be correct in thinking that, sir."

Herr Winter chuckled again. "Your letter, it made...an impression on me, and I found myself even more curious, as to what measure of...sincerity was behind it."

Harry nodded in understanding. It was the same as with Professor Dumbledore, then. "You want to know if it was a political statement or simply an attempt to shift attention away from the details of my case with the Department of Magical Child and Family Services."

The man nodded. "Indeed."

Harry sighed. "You're not the first person to ask."

"I would imagine not. You have a talent, Mr. Potter, for ambiguity."

Harry blinked. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment, sir."

Herr Winter laughed. "Just as well - now you know how it feels. "

Harry smiled wryly at that.

"Now, will you assuage an old man's curiosity?"

Harry nodded slowly. "Well, it was both. I was...very displeased with what Ms. Thistlebaum wrote, and I felt as though I was being taken advantage of, so I wanted to rectify the situation."

"Understandably so. The actions of the press are often...base and remorselessly undignified."

Harry nodded. "So there was that...but I also wanted to make a statement, because I really do mean what I said – I wish that what had happened to me never happened to anyone else, but I know that that's not true. Every day, that's not true. And it's wrong that it's not even a topic for discussion. It's just silently accepted as inevitable, and that's...wrong."

"As a pureblood, I find myself...distant from this plight, but your words did...resonate. I have no children of my own, but I think there is a part of all of us that finds sanctity in the happiness of children."

"I believe so, sir, and that's why I wrote what I did."

"Then that is your intention, then? To...how do you say it...spread awareness?"

Harry nodded. "I hope I can do more one day."

Herr Winter looked at him critically. "And what would you do?"

Harry blinked, not having quite expected that sort of question from an adult he barely knew. "I would...change the policies of the British magical community regarding how children are brought into the magical world."

Herr Winter quirked an eyebrow amusedly. "And how would you do that, Mr. Potter?"

"Well, I suppose the easiest way would to get involved in politics after graduation -"

"No, no, you misunderstand. If, given the chance to change something, what would you change?"

"Well," Harry began cautiously, "I would have the government actively seek out any magical children living in the muggle world, regardless of their age."

"And then what?"

Harry resisted fidgeting. "Then they would assess whether their current guardians were fit to raise magical children."

"Ah, and what would 'fit' mean in this case?" the man asked with what seemed like genuine curiosity.

"It would mean...able to provide shelter, food, and access to the magical world... willing to distance themselves from the muggle world as much as possible while retaining their means of survival...and able to educate their children without sending them to muggle school. It would mean being able to give their children a childhood without the interference of other muggles, and the opportunity to be exposed to the magical world at a young age."

"Very strict criterion."

"I think it's reasonable," Harry said slowly.

"Perhaps," Herr Winter said vaguely, "And in the case that they are deemed fit?"

"Then they would be monitored, but left alone until they got their Hogwarts letter."

Herr Winter nodded slightly. "And if not?"

"To be honest, I haven't thought much about -"

"Come now, Mr. Potter. I'm sure you have."

Harry hesitated, inwardly scolding himself viciously. This was not a conversation he should be having – it was one thing to rant at Theo about his...admittedly radical ideas, but this was a stranger, a variable – someone with an unknown amount of power and influence.

 _Think of it as an experiment_ , Tom suddenly spoke up. _He was clearly a supporter of Grindelwald – he may be amenable to your views. They are rather mild, after all -_

Harry refrained from snorting.

 _\- and this might be a good opportunity to gauge reactions to the sentiments surrounding your proposal. Worst case scenario you come off as a passionate adolescent that does not yet understand the implications of his ideas; but should you succeed in gaining this man's sympathy, you will have won a powerful ally and reasonable validation._

But Harry still hesitated. "I don't want to offend you, sir."

"I hardly think that is possible."

Harry grimaced. "Then...they would be removed, their deaths staged, and placed in the care of the Ministry of Magic until they could be adopted," Harry said resolutely, inwardly panicking. Had he said too much? Would Herr Winter be offended?

But the man did not look offended; instead, he looked grave. "I am not sure you understand, Mr. Potter, what an extremist view this is. There are not many muggle families that would fit your criterion...at least, that is my understanding."

Harry took a deep breath. "No, I know," he said shakily, "But I think part of the reason people see it as extreme is that extreme measures would need to be taken to implement it – extreme measures that are currently unfeasible. I believe that...if the government were...organized differently, then the measures that would need to be taken to implement my idea could be better executed, and it would not seem like as much as an issue."

Now Herr Winter looked very intrigued. "Oh? You have captured my attention, Mr. Potter. Please do go on."

Harry could feel himself sweating now, and he placed his hands behind his back to disguise the inevitable fidgeting of his fingers. "When it comes to issues of childcare in the Ministry of Magic, the system is...clearly broken. Despite how...high-profile my case was, I was almost sent to a a muggle orphanage for an indefinite period of time before my godfather was released from the hospital. Because I have no living family, my Head of House had to step in to avoid me being sent back to the muggle world, because being adopted by a magical family, even temporarily, could not be arranged within two months. Which is ridiculous."

It was impossible to tell whether or not the man shared his sentiment. "Perhaps. Go on."

"Clearly, the Ministry of Magic doesn't have the capacity to deal with large volumes of adoption cases at a time, making my idea completely unfeasible. But I've been doing a lot of reading since I published my letter, and I've been exchanging a lot of letters with friends who have parents involved in the Ministry...and I think that there are two reasons for this."

"Only two?" Herr Winter said humorously.

"Well...at least two. The first is kind of an obvious one – funding. I don't know for sure, but I have a strong feeling that the Department of Magical Child and Family Services has little funding compared to, for instance, the Department of Magical Games and Sports or the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The reason I believe that is is because I recently found out that most of the money the Ministry uses comes from regular donations – we really don't pay that much taxes in Britain. The problem with this is that donors get to choose where all their money goes. So for wealthy families who lost a lot of people in the war, their money inevitably goes to the DMLE, families that enjoy sports a lot donate to the DMGS, and academically inclined contributors will donate to the Department of Mysteries, et cetera. But the DMCFS – no one ever hears about it; it's a department that works in the background."

Herr Winter nodded in agreement, and Harry relaxed a little. "And how would you rectify this funding issue?"

"Well, the easiest thing to do would be to raise taxes."

Herr Winter's eyebrows rose. "I think you would find that not to be a very popular option."

Harry shrugged. "It wouldn't have be a lot for the average witch or wizard, and it would be gradual – the only people who would be _really_ affected would be families like the Malfoys or the Blacks, and as the legal heir to the Black Family, I can confidently say that we wouldn't care."

Herr Winter chuckled. "The issue remains, however."

Harry nodded, starting to feel a bit more confident. "Yes, and to build a system that everyone was happy with, I think that a lot more work would need to be put into the Ministry's system for collecting taxes, which is really very limited and inefficient, but if the muggles can do it, we can too."

"A valid point. But if the taxes were raised only gradually, most of the money flowing into the Ministry would still be the result of donations, would it not?"

Harry nodded. "That's a completely different problem, but it could still be fixed by improving the Ministry's policies for handling money. If donors have no control over where their money goes, they won't donate, but if the Ministry were to put in place a system which, for example, at the end of every six months or a year, balanced out the amount of money being distributed to each department, we would be able to ensure that every department got as much money as they needed. So people can still donate to whatever they want...but the wealth would just be...redistributed."

"Ah, a good plan – but such laws must be passed through the Wizengamot – and they would not stand for such a thing. Many of the donors you speak of are, in fact, the representatives of Wizengamot."

"Which is awful," Harry said bluntly.

Herr Winter laughed.

"No, I...really mean it. It's true – according to the people I've talked to, the people who donate to the Ministry of Magic seem to fall into two categories; people who are in Wizengamot and people who have friends in Wizengamot, and everything important – laws, trials – goes through Wizengamot, which means that many of the people who donate money can decide exactly where it goes! It's clearly a conflict of interest! Even if it's in the Ministry's best interest to redistribute wealth, Wizengamot would never let it happen, because it's _their_ money that's being redistributed. And that's related to the second reason why my plan is unfeasible."

"Which is?"

"Wizengamot. They aren't proactive enough to actually enter muggle households and interfere with how magical children are being raised. I've done a lot of reading about the history of the Wizengamot, and most of the bills they pass these days are sickeningly neutral -"

Harry stopped short, mortified, while Tom laughed at him. Did he _actually_ just say that?

Herr Winter was laughing also, though. "Do not worry, Mr. Potter. Your passion is admirable."

Harry nodded slowly. "What I mean to say is, they're so afraid to do too much that they never do anything at all. It's all over the history books – sure there was a time when our magical government was really progressive and innovative - one of the most forward-thinking in the world - but that's pretty much ground to a halt in the last couple of centuries. It takes years for them to get anything real done, because no one is willing to adapt to changing situations. The Wizengamot is a group of people who don't at all represent the whole of Britain's magical population, and are therefore not qualified to make decisions for the rest of us. It's wrong, and if they won't step up and make change where necessary, then they don't deserve to write our laws or rule our courts. They have no right – because it's not a right; it's a responsibility. And they're failing at their responsibility."

Herr Winter looked very serious again. "Then your idea would be to dissolve the Wizengamot?" he asked with some incredulity evident in his voice.

Harry grimaced. "No, more like...render obsolete."

Herr Winter raised an eyebrow.

"It's possible to remove people from power without them knowing it," Harry said plainly.

"And if that did not work? If the process became so convoluted that you would not see true results in your lifetime?"

Harry was silent for a moment. "Then yes, dissolve the Wizengamot."

"The magical population of Britain would not stand for that."

Harry shook his head. "The wealthy, traditionalist, pureblood magical population of Britain would not stand for that. All that would need to be done is to show that specific group of people a better way, that we could live in a better world."

"And if that fails?"

"...then they need to be distracted."

"And if even that fails? If your distractions prove to be less than distracting?"

Harry grimaced, not really liking the corner he was being backed into – but still, he wasn't willing to stand down. "There are ways to make people do what they don't want to do."

"There are, but it is not so simple."

"Sir?"

"There is a saying, Mr. Potter, that men ought to be well-treated or crushed."

"Machiavelli."

"You _are_ well read, Mr. Potter."

Harry grimaced again. "Not really. I can only quote Nietzsche and Machiavelli."

"That says a great deal about your personality, Mr. Potter."

"Not too much, I hope."

Herr Winter laughed. But once his laughter died down, he was looking at Harry critically again. "But the question remains, Mr. Potter. If men stand resolutely in your way, you will not achieve victory by treating them well. So then what?"

Harry took a deep breath. "Then there's more of us than there is of them," he said in barely more than a whisper.

Herr Winter raised an eyebrow, but did not reply.

Neither of them spoke, and for how long they were silent, Harry didn't know.

"It would appear that I was right, Mr. Potter, to invite you to my party, because I have not had a more interesting conversation in years."

"I...am glad you think so," Harry said evenly.

Herr Winter looked at him closely. "You see much, Mr. Potter – you see the injustice and futility of our world. This is a rare thing for one your age, and you must be commended on your insight."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said quietly.

"But even rarer than such insight is the vision for a better world, and the will to create change. I believe you have both."

Harry could feel his cheeks heating up, and said nothing.

"Moreover, if rumours are to believed, you have the intelligence and skill to make something of yourself, and I will eagerly await the time which you do. I will warn you now, that men with a vision are often accused of radicalism, and men with the will to create change are often seen as usurpers. It is a difficult path you are taking, Mr. Potter, and I hope you know that."

"I do, sir," Harry said, tone still subdued.

"Then you will understand why I am making this offer."

"Offer, sir?"

He started as Herr Winter placed a hand on his shoulder.

"If there is ever a time when the people you seek to serve desert you, and you find yourself without a country and a home, you will come to me. Schloss Adelaide will offer you a place to stay."

 _Oh_ excellent _\- excellent work, Harry._

It took everything in him not to gape in surprise, both at Tom's sudden and fervent praise and Herr Winter's offer. "Sir, I -"

"I am old, Mr. Potter, and I have no children. I have seen three wars come and pass, and have likewise witnessed nothing accomplished by any of them. I am bored, Mr. Potter. Consider this my invitation to alleviate me of my boredom."

Harry was pretty sure he was gaping now. He couldn't help it.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I have some wealthy traditionalist purebloods to entertain."

And as Herr Winter walked away, Harry could do nothing but stand there, frozen, in utter shock.

"Wow, mate, was that Mr. Winter?"

Harry spun around to find Theo standing behind him, a glass of something that looked suspiciously like champagne in one hand and a skewer of three shrimp in the other.

"Umm...y-yes," Harry stammered out.

Theo's eyes widened. "Woah, Harry, what happened? What did he say to you?"

Harry let out a shuddering breath. "I think he just...offered me political asylum."

Theo gaped at him. "What did you _say_?"

Harry grinned sheepishly. "A lot."

Theo raised an eyebrow. "Please tell me you didn't just spill your political extremism all over our gracious host."

Harry shrugged. "He was curious."

Theo rolled his eyes, handing his shrimp to Harry and taking his other hand, beginning to drag him away. "This is Germany, mate, you can't go around talking like a racist magical-elitist here."

Harry frowned. "I'm not a racist."

"You are a little bit."

Harry vanished the shrimp in his hand.

"Hey! I was going to eat that!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Not liking muggles doesn't make me racist."

"Um, yeah, it kind of does. Not to worry, though, I'm just as racist as you are."

Harry frowned. "If we were racist, don't you think Hermione would have something to say about it?"

Theo shook his head. "She's in denial."

Harry grimaced, not really knowing how to counter that argument. "Where are we going, anyway?"

Theo grinned. "Have you ever tried quioli root?"

"What's _that_?"

"Me neither."

He led Harry out of the large hall and down a long, dark passageway, which soon opened up into an empty hall, lined with glass doorways, through which they accessed a large stone balcony.

A young man was sitting on the ground, leaning against the railing, whittling at a small stick. The bits he scraped off were falling into a small wooden pipe sitting on his lap.

The young man – a boy of about 17 or 18 – had a lean face and rosy cheeks, his golden hair falling just below his jawline. When he saw Theo and Harry, he grinned, gesturing at the three bottles of champagne and two slender glasses sitting beside him.

"Come, sit, my friends!"

Theo immediately sat down beside the bottle, refilling his own glass, and then one of the two sitting on the ground, handing it to Harry, who took it cautiously, as he sat down slowly.

Meanwhile, the young man placed the knife and stick on the ground beside him, reaching out with his right hand.

"Maximilian Kreuz, but you, Mr. Potter, can call me Max."

Harry shook his hand. "Harry is fine. It's a pleasure to meet you, Max."

Max grinned.

"Max just graduated from Durmstrang this year," Theo explained, "He'll be taking an internship at the German Ministry of Magic in September."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Congratulations. What department?"

"Auswärtiges Amt – Foreign Affairs Office," Max replied, taking a sip of champagne before going back to whittling his stick.

"Fascinating! Any reason you chose that department?"

Max shrugged. "I like to know what's going on."

"And he speaks twelve languages," Theo put in.

Harry refrained from gaping. He was having a hard enough time with just German.

Meanwhile, Max smirked. "German, English, French, Spanish, Russian, Hungarian, Danish, Swedish, Mandarin, Hindi, Japanese, and Gobbledegook."

"That's...incredible. I've been trying to learn some German, but I've been failing superbly."

Max's eyebrows rose. "Who has been teaching you?"

"Er, a dictionary? And..textbooks?"

"No, my friend, that will simply not do. You cannot fully grasp the nuances of a language through a dictionary and expository text alone. Certainly not my mother tongue. No, no - you must let me teach you."

Harry was gaping now. "Wha- you, teach me? Why would you want to do that?"

Max smirked again. "Must I need an excuse to trade letters with a handsome young man?"

Harry blushed. "Er, no, I guess not..."

Max chuckled quietly.

"Pervert," Theo muttered.

Max laughed more loudly now. "Not at all, Theo. I'm an admirer of beauty, that is all. And may I say, Harry, that you have the most exquisite eyes I have ever seen?"

"Um, thanks?"

"Is the pipe ready?" Theo groused.

Max grinned, placing the stick and the knife on the ground, prodding the contents of the pipe with his index finger. "Yes it is." He held out the pipe to Harry.

Harry took the strange object skeptically. "This is a mind altering substance, isn't it?"

"You could call it that," Theo said with a laugh.

"Not to worry, though," Max assured him, "It lasts thirty minutes and has no after-effects. Perfectly safe."

"Ok," Harry said slowly, lifting the pipe to his mouth and lighting it with a wave of his hand.

He breathed in deeply, but started to cough a moment later. The purple smoke smelled strange, fruity and peppery at the same time, and it burned his throat. Frantically, he gulped down a glass of champagne.

He shook his head. "So what now -" He stopped short, and looked around, eyes wide. Suddenly, he was seeing colours he hadn't even known existed, and the world was being painted anew before his eyes.

"Holy mother of -"

The vulgar oath died away, as the stone under his fingers suddenly became more textured and engaging, and the sound of ambient chatter and music emanating from inside the Schloss warped into a strange, but not unpleasant droning; and as he vaguely registered the pipe being removed from his slackened grip, his eyes wandered to the sky above, where the constellations had come to life and were performing a whimsical tale of a princess and a monster and a god, the brightly shimmering stars unhinged from their celestial prisons, dancing out a story...and Harry believed every word of it.

* * *

Harry unfolded the morning edition of the Daily Prophet as he sipped the disgusting beverage that Kreacher had assured him would cure his minor hangover. True to Max's word, the quioli root had no after-effects...but the champagne did.

He probably should have kept it at five. He only vaguely remembered stumbling to the floo with Theo, where they went their separate ways.

Sighing, he looked down at the Daily Prophet, and was startled by what he found:

 _SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP_

He nearly dropped the paper in shock when he saw a black and white photo of the Dark Mark on the front page.

 _How...fascinating._

"Could it be a fake?" Harry whispered.

 _If it is, someone went through a lot of trouble to replicate_ morsmordre _perfectly._

"Who would do something like this...?"

 _The Malfoys were at the Quidditch World Cup, weren't they?_ Tom mused.

Harry paled, and he suddenly felt cold, as a frigid, uncomfortable burst of anger erupted in his chest at the thought that Draco might have known this was going to happen, but failed to inform him. But it left as quickly as it came.

As he was frantically scanning the page, he didn't hear Sirius enter the room.

"You ok, kiddo?"

Harry's gaze snapped upward.

"Last night, at the Quidditch World Cup – there was an attack."

Sirius's eyebrows rose. "An attack?"

Harry slid the paper across the table. "The Dark Mark was conjured."

Sirius paled as he took the newspaper. "..the fuck?"

"Does it look genuine?" Harry asked.

Sirius stared at the picture. "Yeah...it really does..." He shook his head. "It's too early for this. What do you want for breakfast?"

"An omlette would be nice, I suppose."

"Omlettes it is, Do-"

"And your guest?"

Sirius smirked. _"Guests."_

Harry's eyebrows rose.

Sirius's smirk grew. "They're upstairs, about to take a shower. Together. I've been invited to watch...or at least, I think that's what they said."

Harry frowned. "Good for you. Which bathroom?"

Sirius seemed a little put off by his lack of reaction. "The one closest to our bedrooms."

"You mean...the one Khor sometimes likes to sleep in the bathtub of?"

"Oh, shi-"

Two terrified screeches ripped through the house.

"SCHLANGE!"

Harry smirked. "Have fun explaining that one. Wie gut ist dein Deutsch?*"

Sirius groaned.

* * *

*Probably not hard to guess, but it means "How good is your German?"

Anyway, that was a fun chapter to write (please excuse the bullshit politics/financial stuff...)! Lots of new characters and places! A good vacation before school starts in the next chapter.

That aside, sorry for the kind of disturbing scene at the beginning...the whole fact that Harry witnesses Tom's memories has sort of fallen by the wayside, and I felt compelled to remind everyone just how much living through someone else's - specifically Tom's - life is affecting him.


	6. Plotting and Planning

**Disclaimer:** Nope, still don't own the Harry Potter franchise.

* * *

 **Chapter 6: Plotting and Planning**

" _Moste Potente Potions...Enchanting Elixirs..._ ah! There it is! _Medicines of the Mind!_ "

 _Chapter eight._

Harry nodded and flipped through the yellowing pages until he reached a page entitled _Chapter 8: Closing and Opening the Mind._

"Which one is it?"

 _The fourth recipe, I believe._

Harry flipped through a few more pages. "'A Solvent for the Mind'?"

 _Yes. It dissolves even the most structurally sound occlumency shields. It really is quite a fascinating compound - I have little interest in potion-brewing but even I took some time to experiment it in my youth. Alas, my unrivaled skill as a legillimens prevented me from ever encountering an opportune moment to use it._

Harry grimaced, ignoring Tom's self-flattery. "But it's temporary, right?"

 _Of course. I would not have considered it otherwise._

Harry nodded, scanning the page. "We'll need to visit Knockturn Alley. I wonder if Sirius would let me convert his parents' old bedroom into a potions laboratory..."

 _Even the subtlest errors in timing will produce toxic fumes,_ Tom said curtly.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "What's the wizarding equivalent of a gas mask, I wonder..." he mused.

 _And slight alterations in the texture of the ingredients will produce a deadly poison._

"Should I buy new paring knives?"

 _You won't be brewing this potion,_ Tom said flatly.

"You don't think I can do it?"

 _Oh, I know you can't._

Harry scowled. "You could at least let me _try_."

He could feel Tom starting to get irritated. _You will_ not _risk our life by cleaving to the delusion that a few weeks spent with your potions professor has drastically improved your meagre skills._

"Didn't they?"

 _No. You did little more than prepare ingredients._

Harry was about to retort - highlighting the fact that, despite being Professor Snape's least favourite person in Hogwarts (well, until recently...hopefully), he was, as of last term, second only to Draco in his Potions class - when he paused, frowning. "Did you hear that?"

 _I did._

"What's Sirius doing up at this time?" he wondered, baffled. It was three in the morning.

 _I believe a more fascinating question is, who is he conversing with?_

Harry nodded slowly, and cautiously made his way through the bookshelves and stepped out of the library. When he reached the stairwell, he could hear the voices more clearly; they were coming from the floor below – it was Sirius's voice and that of another man, both speaking in grim, hushed tones. Trying to keep his footsteps as light as possible, he descended the stairs slowly, straining his ears to pick up the quiet conversation that seemed to be coming from the drawing room.

"...potential trail..."

"...don't know why..."

"...went cold..."

"Fuck!"

"...that the DMLE knows?"

"...don't think..."

"Good."

"...find Pettigrew..."

"That's my concern -"

The voices were a abruptly silenced when he reached the tenth stair, which squeaked quite loudly, causing him to cringe.

"Contact me if you discover anything new," he heard Sirius whisper hastily.

"Of course."

There was a pause.

"Harry?"

Sighing, Harry descended the last few stairs quickly, stepping into the drawing room, where Sirius was standing in front of a slightly smouldering hearth, his frame tense and pensive.

"What are you doing awake so late?" the man asked, trying very hard to sound stern and authoritative.

"Reading. Who was that?"

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "You know, you're not too old for a bedtime."

Harry stared at him, trying to convey how very unimpressed he was with the sentiment. "And you're not too young for one. Who was that?"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "A friend."

"That didn't sound like Remus."

"Remus isn't my only friend."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Really?"

Sirius looked a little affronted. "Of course."

"Huh. Where'd you meet him then?" Harry asked, a little suspiciously.

Sirius hesitated. "Azkaban," he admitted a moment later.

Harry's eyes widened. "You made _friends_ in _Azkaban_?"

"Well there's not much else to do."

Harry blinked. "I suppose so." That was certainly one way of looking at it. He paused. "So what's he got to do with Peter Pettigrew?"

Sirius grimaced. "You heard that, did you?"

"Yeah, and I also heard..." Understanding suddenly dawned on him. "You're looking for him. This...friend – he's helping you look for him."

Sirius stared at him for a long moment, his gaze uncharacteristically unreadable. "That's right. But listen, Harry, no one can know."

Harry frowned. "The DMLE doesn't know you're...oh. You're not planning on turning him in."

"No, I'm not."

Harry suddenly realized that his heart beating quickly, and that a perfect opportunity was being presented to him. It was a risk, but Tom would understand...probably. "I can help." After all, he was also hunting Peter Pettigrew.

 _Harry..._

Sirius looked at him oddly. "...how?"

"I think I have a way to find him. It's a long shot, but I think I can do it."

 _If you don't approach this with the utmost caution, your connection to the master soul will be the least of your problems, you foolish child._

Sirius was staring at him again. "You're serious."

"Absolutely."

He nodded slowly. "Take a seat, Harry," he said finally, gesturing to the seat across from the sofa he sat on.

Harry did as his godfather told him, eyeing with distaste the glass the man conjured and a moment later filled with scotch.

Sirius set the glass down and slid it across the coffee table.

"I'm not drinking that," Harry said, his voice conveying great disdain.

Sirius refilled his own glass. "I've recently found myself beset by the conviction that one should never plot a murder without a drink in hand, preferably scotch."

 _If that were true I'd be an alcoholic by now._

Harry nearly snorted.

 _"_ So come on, drink up."

Harry grimaced and picked up the glass, wincing as he sniffed it. "Fine."

Sirius grinned. "So, tell me Harry, how do _you_ suppose I should go about catching a rat? I confess, I'm dying to know your secret."

"Well first off," Harry said, "It's not you, it's us."

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, _us_?"

"I mean we do it together. Find him together, end him together."

Sirius shook his head. "Absolutely not, Harry. Peter was _my_ friend -"

"Who got _my_ parents killed," Harry bit out, "I deserve to see him dead just as much as you do."

"I'll take a picture then."

" _Sirius_ ," Harry ground out, "I want to be there."

Sirius glared at him. "What kind of guardian would I be if I let you come with me to watch me murder someone?"

"A really decent one," Harry said resolutely, "A guardian that respects me and trusts me and understands what this means to me. A guardian who believes in me and really, truly has my best interests at heart."

Sirius looked very conflicted, at this.

"I'm not a kid, Sirius, and you know it. I might not be able to perform magic with my wand outside of school, but I've got near-perfect reflexes and I can disarm, stun, or incinerate anyone who gets in my way – don't underestimate me. Besides – you can't do this alone."

Sirius glared at him. "Now who's doing the underestimating?"

"No, I mean – _he's not alone,_ Sirius."

"And how could you possibly know that?"

Harry gulped down some of the scotch in his hand, and Sirius did the same, and for a moment, they were both silent.

"He's in an old house, probably out in the country," Harry said softly. "It's quiet, abandoned, but he's not alone. Lord Voldemort and his pet snake are with him."

The glass slipped out of Sirius's hand, and Harry blurted out _"Arresto Momentum!"_

Blinking, Sirius snatched the hovering glass out of the air as it made its much more gradual descent, and scooped up the floating scotch. "Nice catch."

"Thanks," Harry mumbled.

Sirius nodded, and proceeded to down what was left in his glass, before refilling it. "So...Peter's with...Voldemort."

"That's right."

"Then I ask you again, Harry, how could you possibly know that?" Sirius's voice had dropped to a low, grim tone, and he was now staring at Harry with a very grave look on his face.

"I don't know," Harry said quietly. "I saw something, the other night, a few weeks back...it was just snippets, really – barely made it through my occlumency shields, I think -"

"You know _occlumency?"_

"Yeah, taught it to myself in first year, but that's besides the point. I think my shields are keeping it out, but some of it made it through – it was like a dream. Only I was there, in a room, with Pettigrew and Voldemort, and they were speaking,-"

"Has it occurred to you that it might have been just a dream? You dream about Voldemort regularly, don't you?" Sirius cut in, sounding concerned.

Harry shook his head. "This was different, I know it was. I'm connected to him, Sirius, my mind and Voldemort's – there's something tying us together. The killing curse did more than just destroy his body that night."

 _You are on very thin ice,_ Tom warned.

Sirius was silent for a moment. "So how does this help us?"

Harry stifled a smile. "I'm looking for a way to temporarily tear down my occlumency shields, so I can have more of these dreams...and when I do, I'll look for details, anything that can tell me where they are – and once we find them, we can go together...and kill them both."

Sirius nodded slowly. "Ok...alright...that...that sounds like a plan."

"Then you'll let me help?"

Sirius stared at him intently, his deep grey eyes glinting with something strange and nostalgic, and a moment later he raised his glass. "To revenge."

Harry smiled openly this time, making sure it was one of his most unassuming, benign smiles, and raised his glass as well, clinking it against Sirius's. "To revenge."

* * *

"Well, I've got to say, I'm going to miss you, kiddo."

Harry smiled up at his godfather, his smile tainted only slightly. Leaving for Hogwarts this year was...bittersweet – it felt entirely different when he had a home to return to; Hogwarts wasn't his only home anymore, and returning to Hogwarts meant leaving something else behind. He wasn't entirely sure he liked this new sentiment. "I'll...miss you too."

Sirius smiled crookedly. "Not to worry – a few hours with your friends and you'll forget all about me."

Harry scowled at him. "Don't say things that aren't true. It's irritating and makes you sound stupid."

Sirius barked out a laugh.

Harry glanced up at the clock. "The train's leaving in a few minutes -"

"Uhh, no it's not. - you've got fifteen minutes."

"I always board early and secure a compartment; I have to go. Remember not to step on Khor, and don't be too horrible to Kreacher. Try not to argue with Aunt Walburga either. _And_ , don't forget to study for your qualifying exams."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Yes, mum."

Harry sniffed primly. "That's what I like to hear."

Sirius barked out another laugh. "Come on, kiddo, one last hug."

Smiling, Harry wrapped his arms around his godfather, smiling when he felt strong arm encircle him in a decidedly paternal gesture.

"Don't forget to write!" Sirius called as he boarded the train.

Harry smirked. "Right, I forgot – you know how to read. Sometimes it's hard to-"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Get out of here before I hex you."

Grinning impishly, Harry disappeared into the train.

It didn't take him long to find a compartment to wait for his friends in – early bird gets the worm and all that – and immediately upon entering, opened his copy of _Magicks of the Sowle_ , which Aunt Walburga was kind enough to let him bring to Hogwarts. She really wasn't so bad once you told her a few carefully edited stories about bewitching muggles and dosing them with illegal potions.

Most of the content was absolutely useless. Fascinating, but useless. A good portion of it was devoted purely to spirit conjuring and necromancy, which interested him very little at this point. He had at first been very tempted – to use one of the many rituals he'd read over to conjure up the souls of his parents – but Tom had warned him away from this branch of magic; and if _Tom_ warned him away...well, he didn't even want to think about it.

And in the wake of Tom's warning, the whole thing got a little dull. By that he meant a lot dull. Tom insisted he continue reading it, of course, just in case they skipped over some crucial information; however, his friend had given him permission to take brief breaks and skip over to the next chapter, where things really started to pick up.

Immortality was the topic that came after necromancy, which he would, thankfully, soon be finished. He was originally just going to peruse the introduction to the next chapter, but in the end found himself too curious to resist delving into the section on horcruxes, and as he continued to read, he found himself growing tense with nervous energy.

 _Horcruxes._ The single most powerful magic he was aware of - not physically or conceptually powerful; it was powerful by proxy. It was the magic that made him what and who he was. The knowledge contained in the pages he was now leafing through...it was the knowledge that had created him. But that wasn't all. It would not be long now before he would know in explicit detail how to create and destroy horcruxes, and to be honest...he wasn't sure that that was knowledge he was ready for. He blamed it partially on Tom – he found himself intrigued by the process, and curious to learn more...to experiment...he'd even put some thought into what he'd make his first horcrux. His favourite toy soldier, his diary, and the photo album Hagrid had given him were on his shortlist; a horcrux had to be something that meant something, some sort of significant memento. He didn't have many – he wasn't like Tom; he couldn't find significance in objects simply because he deemed them objectively important or valuable – but he had some very viable choices. Yes, he had certainly given it some serious thought.

And that scared him. He didn't want to make a horcrux. He really didn't. He knew firsthand what they did to you – how Voldemort 1.0 lost his humanity after splitting his soul 5 times, how Diary-Tom had nearly gone mad trapped in a diary for 50 years – and he didn't want to do that to himself. Immortality was certainly an attractive concept...but he couldn't help but wonder how much of his fascination with the subject was really Tom's. Maybe Harry, just Harry, didn't care about immortality at all. After all, he once... And if that was the case, horcruxes were off the table. He wasn't going to split his soul because Tom told him to. He simply wouldn't.

Besides...there was a part of him that still, even after all these years, even after everything that had happened, wondered what it would be like to die. There was a part that desperately wanted to know...a part of him that wanted to experience the nothing. To feel peace. To feel that blissful close, that conclusion without further consequence, the alleviation of care and cruelty. The final step into the dark beyond where everything was silent and cold -

He shivered, and his stomach lurched as an image flashed before his eyes, of his dead mother standing in an endless expanse of black.

 _'There are no gods. There is only death.'_

He fought down the urge to repeat the words out loud like a mantra, and glued his eyes to the bottom of the page he was on, near the bottom.

It was just as he was turning a page that he heard the compartment door begin to open, and he hurriedly stuffed _Magicks of the Sowle_ into his bag just as Hermione slipped in.

He rose to his feet and was prepared to cheerfully greet her (and come upwith an excuse for hiding his book so quickly), shoving away the cold feeling inside him, but all he could do was stare when he saw her. Her eyes were glassy and bloodshot and her face was red, and there was an unmistakable look of devastation in her eyes.

"H-Hermione? What's wrong?"

He froze when tears started to leak from her eyes. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

"Oh, Harry – I think I've made a terrible mistake!"

Harry paled, fearing the worst. "What did you do?" he asked, dread seasoning his voice.

"I broke up with Cayla!"

Oh. So it was actually good news then.

Harry grimaced, suddenly filled with relief. "Oh, um, that's...bad."

"I know!"

Harry patted her on the back. "Let's, um...why don't you...we...sit down..."

Hermione nodded miserably and sat down in the seat beside the one Harry had been occupying.

"So...um...what happened?"

Hermione sniffled. "She came to see me off...before we left for King's Cross, and she said...she gave me a camera, and asked me to take pictures for her, and I just...I just couldn't. I can't stand lying to her, Harry. So I...I gave her back that camera and I t-told her that I thought it wasn't fair to her to stay together while I'm gone...and she cried...and she just...kissed me on the cheek and left!" she sobbed.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "But...you lie to your friends about Hogwarts all the time, Hermione."

"But she was my g-girlfriend!"

Harry grimaced. "She's a...muggle, Hermione. You had no choice – it's not wrong to lie to her; it's the law."

"I know, I just...it feels so _wrong_."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "But it's _not_ , Hermione. It's for our safety. You can't risk the lives of every witch and wizard because you don't like lying to a muggle." He could not quite keep the steel out of his voice.

She flinched. "I know, I know...it's just...hard...I hate lying, Harry. You know that."

Harry's eyes softened. "Have you thought that...maybe...you know...maybe you just shouldn't date a muggle? If you don't want to lie."

Hermione sighed shakily. "The thought has...crossed my mind. I don't know how people do it...wait until after they're married to tell the truth about who they are. It seems so..."

"Wrong?" Harry suggested.

"Exactly..."

Harry smiled sympathetically. "There are lots of nice girls at Hogwarts."

"I know – that's not the _point_ , Harry. I just...I wish we didn't all have to lie to each other...any of us. I wish we could all just...be honest with each other...live at peace with one another...in harmony..."

"We can't," Harry said flatly.

"Well no one's ever tried, have they?" Hermione snapped automatically.

Harry grimaced again. "Did you read those comic books?"

Hermione blinked. "The one you told me to read after I started dating Cayla?"

Harry nodded. "X-Men."

"I...did."

"Then you read about the Weapon X program, and about the Sentinels."

"It's just a story, Harry," Hermione said defensively.

Harry shook his head. "But it makes sense, doesn't it? That something like that would happen. There's a reason the magical world is a secret, Hermione. How do you think MI-6 and the CIA would react if they knew there were thousands of people living under their noses that could control their minds or wipe their memories?"

"...not well."

"They'd try to eradicate us or use us, just like the humans do to the mutants in the X-Men comics – only for us, there are no plot twists, no heroes, no happy endings – real life doesn't work like that. And even if there _is_ a chance that that wouldn't happen...it's not enough to bet the lives of every witch and wizard on. The numbers don't add up. It's an objectively bad call."

Hermione sighed. "I know, I know what you're saying is right, Harry...I just don't like it."

Harry smiled sadly.

It was at that moment that the compartment door was flung open, revealing Theo and Draco, who froze when they saw Hermione's sorry state.

They seemed to be in a state of shock, until the train lurched, and began to move forward.

"Hermione?" Theo said cautiously.

"We're talking about the apocalypse," Harry said cheerily.

"The _what_?"

"The end of times," Harry explained grandly, "Of life and society as we know it."

Hermione giggled a bit, so he counted it as a success.

Theo and Draco looked at each other confusedly.

"Er...ok. What brought this on?" Theo asked as he shut the door and sat down.

"I broke up with Cayla," Hermione replied miserably.

Draco could not refrain from scoffing. "The muggle?"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Hermione spat.

"Watch it, Granger."

"Or _what_ , Malfoy?"

Harry sighed. "Come on, let's be civil."

Hermione and Draco glared at each other.

"How do you know about that anyway?" she asked suspiciously.

Draco looked at her coolly. "Theo told me."

Hermione's gaze snapped toward Theo. "You -"

"Ok, let's, um, talk about something else," Theo said hurriedly with a pleasant grin. "Anyone got any interesting news?"

"Like the Triwizard Tournament?" Draco asked casually.

Everyone stared at him, puzzled.

"The what?"

"Oh, you haven't heard?" Draco asked with a smirk, "My father told me all about it. They're bringing it back – rumour has it that Hogwarts will be hosting this year."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Hermione asked sourly.

Draco's smirk grew even more smug. "Oh, you don't know?"

Hermione scowled at him.

"It's a competition," Theo explained, "Where the three largest wizarding schools in Europe – Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons – each select a champion to compete. They have to overcome obstacles and face challenges to win points. The winner gets 'eternal glory' and a lot of Galleons. I read about it when I was a kid."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "What rubbish."

Harry nodded sagely. "Indeed. Sounds rather ridiculous – how sure are you that it will be at Hogwarts, Draco?"

Draco, who seemed a bit put off by the lukewarm reaction to his news, sniffed. "Quite sure."

Harry sighed. "Lovely."

"Come on, Harry, it will be fun," Theo said with a smirk, "Do you know why they put a stop to it before? If I recall correctly, it was because of the _death toll._ "

Hermione gasped. "People _die_ in it?"

"Well it would hardly be interesting if they didn't," Draco drawled amusedly.

"That's barbaric!"

"But somehow very ironic," Harry mused.

"How is that ironic!?" Hermione exclaimed, scandalized.

Harry shrugged. "Considering that dying means you can't enjoy your life, eternally glorious or otherwise, I generally find it ironic that someone would risk their lives for a superficial shortcut to glory when they could live long lives and earn it honestly instead. Perhaps ironic is too mild a word. It's actually hilarious how stupid some people are."

Hermione huffed. "Can we _please_ talk about something else?"

Theo raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Like...oh! The Quidditch World Cup! You all read the papers, right?"

Theo's eyes lit up, and he glanced at Harry. "You saw what happened, right, Harry? While we were at the party! We _should_ talk about that."

Draco kicked him. "Let's _not_."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You know something we don't, Malfoy?"

Draco scowled. "Shut up, Granger."

"Watch it, Malfoy," Hermione snarked.

"Ok," Theo cut in, "How about something else, like -"

"Actually," Harry interrupted softly, "I'd like to call a meeting."

The other three glanced at each other, and slowly reached out with their right hands.

"I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine," they all said at once.

Harry nodded. "Now, what do you know, Draco?"

Draco froze.

"We'll keep your secrets, Draco," Harry said pointedly.

Draco sighed shakily. "Look, I don't know much..."

"But?" Harry prodded.

"I didn't know about it until it happened – father just told me to stay out of the way the night of..."

"Was he..."

"Part of it? Yeah."

Hermione gasped.

"Him, Mr. Crabbe, Mr. Goyle, and...I don't know who else."

Harry pursed his lips. "Have you heard anything else?"

"...not really. It was kept really quiet. I don't think my mother even knew about it – she was furious when we got back. I'm pretty sure she hexed father with something nasty."

Harry frowned. "Why _now_? After all this time, since the '82 Death Eater trials not a single attack, and then all of a sudden..."

Draco shrugged uncomfortably. "I dunno. All I know is...we should all watch our backs this year, especially you, Harry."

Harry nodded. "Duly noted." He fixed Draco with a stern gaze. "If you hear anything else...everything you hear, I hear."

Draco nodded hurriedly. "Of course. As soon as I hear anything, you'll be the first to know."

There was a long and awkward pause.

"Anyway," Harry said. "Now that that's out of the way, we should talk about our plans for the year."

He got three cautious nods, and Hermione fetched her notebook and quill out of her bag.

"First off, I spoke extensively with Sirius over the summer, and I'm fairly close to achieving my animagus transformation."

Hermione looked outraged. "And you didn't think to _owl us_?"

Harry grinned sheepishly. "Don't worry, I'll teach you everything I know. I have no doubt that we'll manage it this year. Meanwhile, I think you should get a start on it, Draco. Your occlumency shields don't need much more work at this point."

Draco nodded slowly. "I'll...um..."

Hermione sighed. "I'll help him get started."

Draco gave her a half-smile. "Thanks Granger."

"Excellent," Harry said, "Now, we should continue working on wards. Maybe we can actually successfully cast one this year."

Hermione nodded and made a note in her notebook.

Theo rolled his eyes. "We had lots of successes last year."

"But not with anything _interesting_."

"Whatever, Harry."

"Your enthusiasm is appreciated, Theo," Harry said with a completely insincere smile. "Now, next on the list is spells...I would like to teach you all the _patronus_ charm this year."

Hermione grinned, jotting it down. "Oh, yes!"

"That's light magic, though," Draco pointed out.

Harry looked at him oddly. "Obviously."

Draco rolled his eyes.

"Aside from that, we still have a few left overs to work on from last year, and I've got a few of others, like an eyeball rupturing curse -"

Hermione shuddered.

"- and a foot-breaking curse...but I want to focus on actual spell-casting this year."

Theo frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I think we should aim to be able to cast all of our spells wordlessly."

His friends gaped at him.

" _All?"_

Harry grimaced. "Well, as many as possible, at least. It would make a huge difference in actual combat," he said, recalling Tom's duel with his younger self.

"We're not _you_ , Harry," Theo said incredulously, "I'm a pretty good duellist but I'm not at bloody NEWT level."

Harry ignored him. "I would also like to teach you all some wandless magic."

He got more incredulous looks.

"You should _at least_ be able to disarm someone wandlessly. That way you can get a hold of a wand if you lose yours."

The incredulous looks hadn't vanished.

"Look, it's a first year spell. I have full faith in your capabilities to cast a first year spell wandlessly. It will take hours of practice, but you've no excuse not to try," Harry said sternly.

Everyone looked properly chastised, and Hermione nodded slowly, making more notes. "Yes, of course you're right."

Harry nodded. "Yes, I am."

Theo snorted.

"Aside from that...I've almost – well, I say _almost_ – finished my second spell, and I can teach you that...we can also go over some spell-crafting techniques...but I think that will keep us pretty busy."

Theo raised an eyebrow. "You think?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, probably." He realized a moment later that Theo was being sarcastic.

Hermone nodded. "Is that everything?"

"Not quite," Harry said, "There are two more items on the agenda. The first is logistics."

"Logi-what?" Theo asked, puzzled.

"Logistics is the planning, execution, and control of the procurement, movement, and stationing of personnel, material, and other resources to achieve the objectives of a campaign, plan, project, or strategy," Hermione recited.

Harry smiled. "Thank you, Hermione. Straight out of the Webster Dictionary?"

"Oxford, actually."

"Oh, good choice."

Theo and Draco looked perplexed.

"Anyway, I want to specifically talk about communication and expansion. I've been studying something called the _protean_ charm over the summer, and I will be working over the next term on putting together a set of objects that we can use to communicate with one another, like parchment charmed so that we can write to each other directly...kind of like Tom Riddle's diary, but with each of us on the other side."

Hermione's eyes lit up while she rapidly jotted down more notes. "Oh, that's brilliant! I'll help you!"

Harry grinned. "Between the charm and some of the oaths I've read about, I think we can make some pretty interesting magical objects."

"Well, you two have fun with that," Draco drawled.

"Yeah, we'll...sit this one out," Theo said wryly.

Harry nodded. "Understandable. That just leaves expansion then."

"You want to recruit _more_ members?" Theo asked with a raised eyebrow.

Harry nodded. "I have a list. I was thinking maybe Terry Boot and Michael Corner, and Daphne and Tracey."

Theo chuckled. "So...everyone at your birthday party."

"Everyone who knows I'm a parselmouth," Harry specified.

Everyone was silent for a moment.

"Well, I have no objections," Draco said.

"If you think it's best, Harry, then I'm all for it," Hermione said.

Theo hesitated though. "But with more people...can we really trust that many people?"

"Well, yes and no. I think the four of us...I think we trust each other more than we'll ever be able to trust anyone else at this point, so I think we should still meet privately, on Sundays, for instance. We're the ones who have pledged to keep each others secrets, and I agree that at this point adding more people to this group might be precarious – more people to keep an eye on."

Theo nodded.

"But there's no reason we can't expand our Thursday evening duelling sessions. That's how I see it, at least."

Theo nodded slowly. "I think that's reasonable. But will we stop at those four? Eight is already a lot of people to keep track of."

Harry smirked. "I'm working on that. There are ways to hold people to their word, after all."

"You mean -"

"I've been crafting some oaths...experimenting...it's going well so far. I'm optimistic."

Theo nodded. "Ok, then I'm all in."

Harry smiled broadly. "Excellent."

* * *

"Is it possible to kill someone who's already dead?" Theo grumbled as he sat down beside Harry at the Slytherin table, using his robe to mop his long brown hair, which was sopping wet.

Harry chuckled, wordlessly casting a drying charm on Theo. "Peeves got you right on the head, didn't he?"

"Bloody water bombs."

Harry chuckled again.

"You're going to have to teach me that umbrella charm."

"We can go over it tonight -"

"Hi Harry," Daphne said sweetly as she sat down at Harry's other side. She batted her eyelashes.

"Hello Daphne," he replied, smiling brightly.

Daphne grinned at him. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a _ravishing_ smile, Harry?"

Theo rolled his eyes.

"Um, no, actually."

"Well you do."

"You shouldn't complement him so much, Daphne," Tracey said as she sat down beside her, Pansy and Millicent following behind. "He's getting a big head."

Harry laughed. "I think you're mistaking me for my godfather."

"How is he doing?" Millicent asked curiously.

"As well as you can expect for someone recently escaped from Azkaban," Harry said.

Tracey rolled her eyes. "Except no one's ever escaped Azkaban before," she pointed out.

Harry paused. "Good point."

Tracey quirked and eyebrow at him.

It was then that Zabini showed up, giving everyone his customary nod before he sat down beside Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle on the other side of the table.

Meanwhile, Harry's eyes flickered toward the staff table, where most of the professors had gathered, with the absence of Professor McGonagall and, conspicuously, whoever their defence professor was going to be. "Who do you suppose our new Defence against the Dark Arts professor is?"

Theo shrugged. "Too bad Lupin left. Werewolf – who would have thought it?"

Parkinson sniffed. "Good riddance."

"Don't say that, Pansy," Harry said lowly, his eyes narrow.

Pansy paled slightly.

"Do you know anything, Draco?"

The other boy only shrugged.

"Maybe they couldn't get anyone," Millicent mused, sounding somewhat anxious about the prospect.

"Don't be silly," Tracey said, rolling her eyes. "They _have_ to find someone." She paused. "Don't they?"

Harry sighed. He was _pretty_ sure they _had_ to find somebody, but that really begged the question of what would happen if they just _couldn't._

It was then that the doors to the Great Hall swung open, and Professor McGonagall led a crowd of first years in, all of them looking incredibly befuddled and awed.

Tracey stared at them curiously, smirking when she saw a few of them jump when the hat started to sing. "Did we _really_ look like that three years ago?"

"Oh I remember it clearly," Higgs said from across the table, "You in particular, Davis, looked quite ready to faint when the hat opened its mouth."

"Shut up, Higgs. It's not my fault my parents didn't see fit to warn me about the bloody hat."

"I don't recall that," Bole mused from beside him, "But what I _do_ recall is Potter making us wait an extra ten minutes for dinner."

Avery, who was usually not inclined to comment on anything, snorted. "Hard to forget."

"I forgot all about that," Tracey said with a raised eyebrow. "Why _did_ you take so long, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "The hat and I had a disagreement."

Pansy scoffed at him. Old habits die hard. "You had a disagreement with a _hat?_ "

"A singing hat," Harry pointed out sourly, still admittedly a bit sore over the fact that a – as Tracey called it - bloody hat had managed to manipulate him into lowering his occlumency shields, "An ugly, slightly tone-deaf singing hat that happens to be a mediocre legillimens and a bit of a manipulative bastard with no respect for personal privacy and the sanctity of the human mind."

"I HEARD THAT HARRY!" the hat suddenly cried out, causing the child sitting under it to nearly fall right off the spindly stool.

Harry spun around, staring at the hat in shock as the Great Hall went deathly silent. Even Professor Dumbledore looked a little startled, but his eyes were twinkling madly.

"Er, deepest apologies...sir."

The hat huffed. "I would think so." It paused. "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Everyone seemed to still be in a state of shock, but the sorting continued, albeit somewhat stiltedly.

"Why'd Gryffindor give it _ears_? What's the point of a hat having _ears_?" Theo whispered, baffled.

"I believe we just witnessed it," Harry muttered.

As it happened, the sorting finished without further incident – though Harry could have sworn the hat was glaring at him when Professor McGonagall took it away...it occurred to him then that the hat also might be a little sore over the fact that an eleven-year-old had managed to piece together occlumency shields that could keep him out – and when it was finished and all were seated, Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet, smiling pleasantly at the students, his arms opened wide in welcome as they were at the beginning of every Welcome Feast.

"I have only two words to say to you," he told them, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. His lips twitched. "Tuck in."

On cue, a scrumptious feast appeared on the table before them, and immediately the Great Hall erupted with the ambient noise of scrambling to retrieve food, chewing, and intermittent chatting.

As usual, Harry spent about a minute scanning the table and planning out what he was going to put on his plate, cleverly avoiding the mad dash for food which always ensued with the beginning of the feast.

Mashed potatoes for sure, maybe some peas...carrots were apparently good for your eyes, so he definitely needed those; the roast, of course, was especially conspicuous, but it suddenly struck him that he didn't actually like roast beef that much – it was more the novelty of actually being allowed to partake in it when it wasn't stale and cold that got him every year. It was awfully unhealthy too, the way that the Hogwarts elves cooked it. In fact, a lot of the meat they ate was very greasy or buttery or fatty – that probably wasn't a good thing. After all, they had a duty to themselves and the world to maintain a decent level of health; how else were they supposed to accomplish anything meaningful in their lives. Clearly, eating the meat at Hogwarts hindered that goal - making it a possible detriment to human progress. For a split second he considered becoming a vegetarian but then he remembered how much he actually enjoyed fish, which was supposedly much healthier. He supposed he could be a peskatarian, but then he recalled that despite the apparent unhealthiness of the meat he usually consumed, he actually enjoyed the taste quite thoroughly, and a little bit of grease wasn't going to kill him; actually, now that he considered it, it was more the texture of roast beef that he found quite off-putting...it made his jaw sore – but surely there was more to it than that. But no, there wasn't. It was then that it occurred to him, to his horror, that all this time his brain had been essentially confabulating and trying to come up with a more impressive reason to dislike roast beef, because having a sore jaw was just too utterly mundane and insignificant -

"Er, Harry, are you ok?"

He blinked. "I think I'm having a crisis."

Theo looked very concerned now. "Over what?"

"Roast beef."

Theo, and everyone listening in, looked utterly bewildered.

"I think I might look for meaning in things that have none," Harry explained uneasily, "The roast beef is troubling. I think I was trying to moralize my feelings towards it because I couldn't cope with the triviality of my own weaknesses."

 _You're an idiot._

Thank you, Tom - helpful as ever.

Theo opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Finally, he reached over and picked up one of the chicken drumsticks on his plate and deposited it on Harry's.

"Have some chicken."

Harry stared at it for a moment, before nodding appreciatively. "A nice neutral option."

Theo seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

The rest of the meal went smoothly, and was devoid of further intellectual discussions, internal or otherwise. The dessert that followed, of course, was equally pleasant, due in part to the fact that the plate of treacle tarts happened to materialize right in front of Harry, giving him an excuse to devour them with abandon, seeing that he didn't have to make a show of reaching across anything to retrieve them. Tom, of course, complained, reminding Harry that he despised the taste of treacle tart, and that he tasted everything Harry did, but Harry decided that it was worth the headache.

Far too soon, however, the treacle tarts disappeared, and once the last crumbs had faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, the Headmaster rose to his feet again.

"So!" Professor Dumbledore exclaimed cheerily, "Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.

"Firstly, I am pleased to announce that, thanks to the efforts of one of Hogwarts's brightest and most insightful students, steps have been taken to further ensure the welfare of the Hogwarts student body. Starting the second week of classes, a peer support group will begin meetings in the old Charms classroom on the second floor, on Tuesday and Thursday nights at seven o'clock. Students who are experiencing stress or anxiety due to academic or personal demands are encouraged to attend, as are any who find themselves lacking in a safe environment where they can express their cares and concerns. This group will be facilitated by Miss Hermione Granger of Gryffindor on Tuesdays and Mr. Anthony Goldstein of Ravenclaw on Thursdays."

Harry glanced over at Hermione, who was beaming at the Headmaster.

"Additionally, Madame Pomfrey has agreed to hold private counselling sessions for those students who find themselves in need of guidance or assistance in coping with what can prove to be some of the most complex and tumultuous years of your lives. Students of every year and every house are encouraged to take advantage in these programs – there is no shame in asking for help, and help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."

Professor Dumbledore took a moment to smile tenderly at the mass of students below him, before he went on.

"Moving on, Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it."

The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitched as he continued, "As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."

Harry felt a little formerly happy part of himself wither inside, and he could hear his teammates making protesting groans. Tom, on the other hand, seemed quite pleased.

"This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy -"

Harry felt resentment and the slightest twinge of anger creep up inside him, as he realized just what would be prohibiting him from playing quidditch this year.

"- but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely."

Not bloody likely.

"I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts -"

But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall flew open abruptly with a loud bang.

A strange figure stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long, gnarled staff, shrouded in a black travelling cloak. Instantly, everyone's attention snapped toward the stranger, who was suddenly brightly illuminated by a burst of lightning that flashed across the ceiling.

The silhouette was large and imposing, and more than a little crooked, and Harry wondered for a moment if this was a man or some sort of creature.

Slowly, the entity lowered its hood, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, then began to walk up toward the teachers' table. A dull clunk echoed through the Great Hall on its every other step, which continued until it reached the end of the teacher's table, turned right, and limped toward Professor Dumbledore.

Another flash of lightning danced across the ceiling, and the bright light bounced off the being's face with vigour, and a few people gasped. It looked as though it had been carved out of driftwood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to look like, and was...less than a skilled artisan. Every centimetre of skin seemed to be scarred, and the man's – for it did, at further examination, seem to be a man – mouth looked like it could have been a deep scar itself, while a large chunk of his nose was missing. But it was the man's eyes that made him truly a sight to behold. One of them was small, dark, and beady, and the other was nothing short of massive (he had nothing on Dobby, but who did?), round like a ball, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the other, much more _tame_ eye — and then it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the man's head, so that all they could see was whiteness.

When the almost comically deformed stranger reached the Headmaster, he stretched out a hand that was just as badly scarred as his face, and Professor Dumbledore shook it heartily, muttering words inaudible to the rest of the Hall. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shook his head grimly and replied quietly.

Meanwhile, Professor Dumbledore nodded and gestured for the man to sit down in the empty seat on his right-hand side. The man sat down, shook his mane of dark gray hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages toward him, raised it to what was left of his nose, and sniffed it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye was still darting restlessly about the Hall.

"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Professor Dumbledore said brightly,. "Professor Alastor Moody."

None of the staff or students clapped except Dumbledore and Hagrid. In fact, they all looked a little wary, especially Professor Snape, who seemed to be eyeing the newcomer with great trepidation.

Meanwhile, whispers broke out along the Slytherin table. Theo and Draco had gone a little white in the face, along with Avery, and Crabbe and Goyle looked a bit terrified, which upset Harry, because apparently they knew something he didn't. While Daphne, Tracey, and Millicent seemed fairly unaffected, along with Zabini (as usual), the Carrow twins looked particularly displeased, and were scowling at the newcomer openly. Harry heard the name 'Mad-Eye Moody' being whispered among his housemates.

 _A particularly notorious auror_ , Tom informed him, his voice low, _Confirmed member of the Order of the Phoenix. Be sure to measure your actions in his presence;. we_ cannot _afford to make an enemy out of him. He is renowned for his caution and his mistrustful nature. One misstep and he will see through you in an instant. Consider him just as dangerous as Dumbledore – his intelligence may be far inferior, but he will be looking for anomalies where the old fool does not._

Harry nodded subtly, his neck suddenly more stiff than it was before.

Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Now, as I was saying," he said, smiling, "We are to have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

"You're JOKING!" Harry heard Fred or George Weasley exclaim loudly across the hall.

The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody's arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone who wasn't at the Slytherin table laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.

"I am not joking, Mr. Weasley," he said, "Though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar..."

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.

"Er - but maybe this is not the time...no..." said Dumbledore, "Where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament...well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.

"The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities — until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."

Harry's eyebrows rose, and Tom chuckled in his mind. So Theo _hadn't_ been joking about that at all. However, he was still feeling too sore over the absence of quidditch in his life to care all that much.

"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Professor Dumbledore continued, "None of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger."

A few people at the Slytherin table appeared visibly disappointed at that.

"The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."

Theo whistled softly.

"Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts," the Headmaster went on, "The heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age — that is to say, seventeen years or older — will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This -" Professor Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words...Harry simply continued to be unimpressed by the whole affair "- is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion." His light blue eyes twinkled as they flickered over to the Gryffindor table. "I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.

"As I said, the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October, and will be remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"

* * *

Harry yawned as he sat back in his bed, idly turning the page of _Magicks of the Sowle_. He had nearly finished the section on Necromancy; he was currently reading the last chapter, on famous Necromantic artifacts. For the most part, it was very boring, and he thought that he soon might fall asleep – until something caught his eye.

It was that symbol again, sketched into the bottom right corner of the page; the triangle containing the circle and the single line through the middle - the same symbol sketched into the copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ in the Black Family library, and set into Tom's ring. Curiously, Harry decided to read the section more carefully.

 _'...the Necromancer Cadmus Peverell was born in the village Godric's Hollow, elder to Ignotus and younger to Antioch Peverell. He had in his possession a great artifact of legendary power; the Stone of Resurrection was said to be gifted to Peverell by Death himself, just as the Elder Wand and the Cloak of Invisibility were gifted to his brothers..._

Harry flipped the page, gasping as he came face-to-face with an exact depiction of the black stone embedded in the Gaunt Family ring _._

 _...This object is said to be able to bring back the shades of the dead as more than mere ghosts, a feat envied by many a necromancer. It is unknown whether Peverell ever owned such an object; but it has nonetheless passed into legend. Yet, there are some who still search for the Wand, the Stone, and the Cloak – the Deathly Hallows, who are said to grant their master the title of Master of Death._

Harry's breath caught in his chest. The Master of Death...the words chilled him to the bone. What did that even mean? Immortality? The power to bring back the dead? The ability to save those at the brink of death? So many possibilities...

He shook his head. It was a children's story, a fable...wasn't it?

And yet...here he had on his finger an ancient heirloom, an exact replica of the so-called Resurrection Stone, and a few feet away, buried in his trunk, an Invisibility Cloak passed down through his family – who were from Godric's Hollow, the supposed birthplace of the Three Brothers. Was it possible that it was more than a mere legend? Was it possible that Death himself created three powerful objects and gifted them to these three brothers, who all passed them down through their respective bloodlines?

If so...Harry already had two of the three. He was one unbeatable wand away from becoming the Master of Death. He was so close...

He had to have it. He just had to. He didn't know why. He didn't even know what it meant. But it didn't matter. Because here were three magical items, supposedly born of Death, all practically begging to be found by him.

Just like his mother told him. It was the game. He was playing now, he knew the rules. He knew what he had to do.

A small smile crept onto his face and he whispered, "Harry Potter, Master of Death."

 _Enough with the foolish fables, Harry. The chapter on horcruxes awaits us._

"Of course, Tom," Harry said absently, still caught up in the vague feeling of victory and fulfillment.

* * *

And so it begins. Hope you enjoyed! Don't forget to drop me a review on your way out - I'm always eager to hear your thoughts!


	7. Professor Alastor Moody

**Disclaimer:** No, I don't own this.

* * *

 **Chapter 7: Professor Alastor Moody**

"So, let me confirm that I am, in fact, hearing you correctly - you had an entire free period, and you did _nothing_?" Harry asked incredulously.

It was a bright, sunny September afternoon, and Harry was seated firmly at the Slytherin table, glaring at the sunshine, contemplating the fact that no matter how many days like this there would be during the school year, he would not be spending any of them at quidditch practice. He was in a general state of being unimpressed – he had been since Professor Dumbledore's announcement – and Theo wasn't exactly helping him overcome it. It had finally happened - Theo had failed him.

"Hey, mate, I needed all ninety minutes to recover from those bloody skrewts – they're monstrous. Bloody Hagrid. Bloody Care of Magical Creatures."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You said they were smaller than your hand. How bad could they be?"

Theo scowled. "You have no idea, right -" He glanced over his shoulder. "Where did Draco go?"

Harry blinked. "He was sitting here reading the Daily Prophet a minute ago..."

They both looked around confusedly.

"Is that him with Weasley?" Theo asked.

Harry glanced over to the Gryffindor table, where Draco seemed to be gloating about something while holding up that day's edition of the Daily Prophet, while Ron grew gradually more red in the face. At first, Hermione simply stared on with trepidation, but then she managed to catch his eye and make a pleading face.

Harry sighed. "Yes, yes it is. I'll take care of this."

He began walking over, weaving around the house tables as he finished flipping through the potions textbook in his hand, a sour look on his face, as he read the last paragraph on the theory behind the Magical Coral Snake antivenin (he was planning on brewing some to send to Sirius, just in case) - but was interrupted by a loud bang, and a great roar that echoed through the Great Hall rather ominously.

"OH NO YOU DON'T, LADDIE!"

Harry looked up and blinked, baffled for a moment, at the sight before him. Their new Defence against the Dark Arts professor, Professor Moody, was standing in front of the Gryffindor table, wand pointed at a small white ferret, shivering where Draco had been standing a moment ago, whilst Ron looked on with glee written all over his face and Hermione gaped in utter disbelief, Crabbe and Goyle betraying a similar sentiment mingled with terror.

The potions book snapped shut and Harry's irritated trudging turned into a frantic half-walk-half-run.

"LEAVE IT!" Professor Moody suddenly growled, pointing abruptly at Crabbe, who had just frozen, about to pick up the white ferret. The man then started to limp toward Crabbe, Goyle, and the ferret, which gave a terrified squeak and took off, streaking toward the door.

"I don't think so!" Moody roared, pointing his wand at the ferret (who Harry was certain at this point was actually Draco) again, and it flew ten feet into the air, fell with a smack to the floor, and then bounced upward once more. "I don't like people who attack when their opponent's back's turned -" the ferret bounced higher and higher, squealing in pain "- stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do..." The ferret flew through the air, its legs and tail flailing helplessly. "Never - do - that - again -"

 _Arresto Momentum!_ Harry cast silently out as he approached, causing the ferret to slow in its descent.

Instantly Professor Moody dropped ferret-Draco and spun around, shooting off a wordless curse at Harry, who managed to erect a shielding charm just in time.

His scar began to burn.

 _One misstep, Harry,_ Tom said warningly as the beginnings of a headache started pounding in his forehead.

Professor Moody was staring at Harry, now both eyes trained on him, while Harry stared back, trying to hide the severe discomfort he was feeling.

"Professor Moody!"

Professor McGonagall was bustling into the Hall with her arms full of books, her face white.

"Hello, Professor McGonagall," Professor Moody said calmly, eyes still trained on Harry.

"Did you just try to curse Potter?!" She then caught sight of the ferret standing on the floor, quivering. "What - what were you just doing?"

"Teaching."

"Teach - Moody, is that a student?" Professor McGonagall shrieked, the books spilling out of her arms as she pointed down at the ferret in uncharacteristically frazzled and unrestrained horror.

"Yep."

"No!" Professor McGonagall cried, pulling out her wand; a moment later, with a loud snapping noise, Draco had reappeared, lying in a heap on the floor with his hair strewn all over his now brilliantly pink, angry face. He got to his feet, wincing, his face growing slack when he saw Harry standing there.

"Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a punishment!" Professor McGonagall said weakly, "Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?"

"He might've mentioned it, yeah," Professor Moody admitted, scratching his chin unconcernedly, "But I thought a good sharp shock -"

"We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the offender's Head of House!"

"I'll do that, then," Professor Moody growled, staring at Draco with great dislike.

Meanwhile, Draco glared hatefully up at Moody and muttered something in which the words "my father" were distinguishable. Harry refrained from sighing.

"Oh yeah?" Moody said quietly, limping forward a few steps, the dull clunk of his wooden leg echoing around the hall. "Well, I know your father of old, boy...you tell him Moody's keeping a close eye on his son...you tell him that from me...now, your Head of House'll be Snape, will it?"

"If I may, Professors," Harry cut in, putting on his best humbly concerned face. He turned to Ron. "Did Draco actually hex you?"

Ron shook his head mutely, still staring at Professor Moody in wonderment, and Hermione exclaimed, "No, he didn't!" Her voice was a few intervals higher than usual.

"Well," Harry continued delicately, "Seeing as Draco didn't actually hex anyone, I think this whole ordeal has been enough to discourage any further incidents. Is it really necessary to punish Draco further?"

"I completely agree, Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy will not be punished," Professor McGonagall said briskly, sparing a glare at Professor Moody.

Harry nodded curtly. "We'll be going, then. Crabbe, Goyle." The two boys nodded and scurried off, while Harry walked forward and placed a hand on Draco's shoulder, steering him away from the Gryffindor table.

"That _cannot_ happen again," he hissed menacingly in Draco's ear once they were out of earshot, while the other boy's face paled from pink to white. "Do you _want_ to draw Moody's attention to us?"

"N-no."

Harry's face remained perfectly still, but his eyes were shining with something malevolent, and he was digging his fingers painfully into Draco's shoulder, his ire goaded on by the pain in his head. "Do you have any idea what would happen if he -"

"Potter!"

Harry froze, and then spun around, staring, startled, at Professor Moody.

"Nice reflexes, boy," the man called, causing McGonagall to scowl at him exasperatedly.

Harry reigned in his anger and smiled pleasantly. "You as well, Professor."

* * *

"We need to change the way we do things," Harry said quietly.

He and Hermione were sitting on one of the two couches in front of the Room of Hot Chocolate's hearth, while Theo and Draco sat on the other.

"How do you mean?" Hermione asked with a frown.

" _Somebody_ -" he shot a pointed look over at Draco, who paled when he saw it "- managed to draw Professor Moody's attention. He's explicitly said that he'll be watching Draco from now on, and he's clearly interested in me. A grievous mistake on my part." He paused, glancing at Draco again. "Next time I'll just let you suffer for your stupidity."

Draco looked immensely troubled by this statement.

To be honest, Harry felt a little bad for picking on Draco so cruelly, but it seemed that some of Tom's ire was leaking into his, and the last two days of especially frequent headaches had been taxing to say the least. Not to mention...honestly, this behaviour had to stop. Draco risking the security of the Order to get a few cheap shots at Ron Weasley was simply not acceptable. They were fourteen, not four, for god's sake.

"That being said, Professor Moody _cannot_ find out about us. Ever."

Hermione looked at him, alarmed, and the other two looked equally distraught. "We're not going to disband, are we?"

Harry shook his head. "No, of course not; we just need to take extra precautions. First off, we need to control how we interact outside of meetings. Hermione, you can't ever approach Theo and Draco unless in my presence, and Draco, Theo, you can't ever approach Hermione on your own. Everyone knows you're my friend, Hermione, but we can't have Moody wondering why two purebloods who happen to be the sons of Death Eaters are associating with a Gryffindor muggleborn student of their own free will."

He got three rapid nods.

"Good. We also need to change when we meet."

Hermione pulled out her notebook. "When's the new meeting time?"

Harry shook his head, pulling three pieces of parchment out of his pocket, laying them on the table.

"Please sign them."

Everyone obeyed without question, and a moment later, frowned.

"You see the dates and times?" Harry confirmed.

He got three puzzled nods.

"Only you can read this list, and each one is unique. We won't be meeting at regular intervals anymore; I've organized two meetings a week, which we will all show up at different times for."

"So no one can notice a pattern," Hermione deduced.

"Exactly."

"But there are only dates up to the middle of October," Theo commented.

"I'm hoping Hermione and I will have devised a more secure and practical way to organize meetings by then."

Hermion perked up at that. "Oh, yes! I've taken out a book on NEWT-level charms! The _protean_ charm is really quite fascinating -"

"Which is why we're going to be studying the theory behind it and related spells in the library every second day after arithmancy," Harry said.

Hermione looked at him with adoring eyes, before she caught herself and cleared her throat. "Excellent idea, Harry."

Theo frowned. "Wait, you have arithmancy three days a week?"

Hermione grinned. "We're in fifth year for that class, remember? We have OWLs this year."

Theo and Draco looked horrified.

Harry smiled slightly. "Now, I'd like to keep this short, if it's alright with you all – I'd like to drop by the library before it closes for the night."

Theo shrugged. "I'm knackered anyway. Maybe we can just go over some warding and then call it quits?"

Harry nodded. "That's what I was thinking."

"But back to the meeting times... next meeting, I just want to confirm..." Hermione said, "Sunday, six forty-nine p.m?"

"Mine says seven oh-two," Theo put in.

Draco frowned. "Wait. Why's mine say five fifty-two? That's a whole hour earlier."

Harry pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, and set it down before Draco. "That's because I need you to get a start on this."

Curiously, Draco opened the piece of paper, eyes widening a moment later in understanding. "Oh! This is what you wanted those ingredients for."

Theo looked over his shoulder. "What's that?"

Draco shrugged. "All I have to do is brew it."

"It's not important," Harry said definitively. "Just some...medicine I want to try. I'll meet you here early on Sunday to start on it, Draco."

Draco nodded slowly. "Alright then. So...wards?"

Harry smiled thinly. "I thought we could start off the year with some blood wards – but the kind that actually require fresh blood. Obviously, we need a volunteer. I nominate Draco."

Draco sighed, glaring at Hermione when she smirked at him.

* * *

"This year," Professor Snape said silkily, stalking out from behind his desk, "We will be focusing on brewing antidotes."

Draco and Hermione both immediately perked up at that. Neville Longbottom looked like he wanted to be excited, but didn't dare to attempt it.

"Dangerous substances abound in the wizarding world. The sap of the Marrow Tree; the petals of the Widow's Bloom; the venom of the Magical Coral Snake; the saliva of the wyvern – all of these could prove to be your end...be it nigh instantaneous, or excruciatingly _slow_ and _painful._ A correctly brewed and administered antidote could be a your salvation; an incorrectly brewed antidote could quicken your demise or turn a painful death into an agonizing one. Picture, if you will, a venom which infiltrates the brain with a powerful neurotoxin, causing inflammation around and neuralgia in the trigeminal nerves; now consider a poorly brewed antidote which, instead of reducing the swelling, causes the inflammation to spread across the brain and cause sensory deprivation – the result is a victim who spends their last hours blind, deaf, numb, and unable to taste or smell; capable of feeling only an excruciating nerve pain nearly as intense as the _cruciatus_ curse."

Most of the class had paled at this point, and some looked quite ill.

"Imagine now a poison which reacts with the acid in one's stomach, creating an even stronger acid which will inevitably burn away the stomach lining, and then the stomach itself, and then the lungs and intestines, consuming the victim from the inside out. Now also imagine an antidote which fails in neutralizing the acid; it instead reacts with it and causes it to combust." His lips quirked into an ugly smile. "And the unfortunate victim...well, let us just say that there will be no open casket at their funeral."

Neville looked quite ready to faint by now.

Professor Snape's eyes travelled over the classroom then, and he looked quite satisfied by everyone's reactions. "It is for this reason that your potions will be graded especially harshly this year. Carelessness will not be tolerated."

No one made a sound, or moved a muscle.

"Now let us begin. Page seven."

Everyone promptly turned to the correct page.

"The Blood Coagulation Potion, also known as the Clotting Potion. It is not an antidote itself, but it can slow the mechanism of some poisons. As you can see, the key ingredient is Paragula scales. Perhaps one of you incompetent children can tell me why this is the case...Potter."

Harry steeled himself, expecting himself to have to rapidly rummage through his brain to find a plausible answer. But then he realized – he knew this. Professor Snape himself had taught him this over the summer. Surely the man hadn't forgotten. Or perhaps...

"When ground into a fine powder and mixed with essence of ivy, it activates the relevant proteins in the blood that assist with clotting."

"Excellent answer, Potter. Five points to Slytherin."

Harry gaped.

"Close your mouth, Potter, you look like an imbecile."

Harry's mouth snapped shut.

"Now tell me, if the scales and essence of ivy perform this task on their own, why are the other ingredients necessary? You may obviously open your mouth again."

He knew this too. "They're regulators. If the blood clots too much it could result in death."

Professor Snape's lips curled into a thin smile. "Five more points to Slytherin."

The entire class was gaping at him now. They were so used to Professor Snape viciously interrogating him and verbally assaulting him that it probably seemed like their Professor had had a brain transplant over the summer.

"Well, what are you all waiting for? You have ninety minutes to brew."

When Professor Snape returned to his place behind his desk, Theo furiously whispered in Harry's ear, "What the bloody hell happened over the summer?"

Harry's lips quirked upward into a smile. "Mutual bonding."

Apparently, now that Professor Snape no longer despised him and thought him an idiot, he'd be using him to increase Slytherin House's house point tally - a mutually beneficial agreement to say the least.

Theo stared at him in disbelief.

About a half hour into the lesson, Hermione got yelled at for helping Neville too much, and sure enough, twenty minutes later, Neville melted his cauldron for the – what was it? Sixth? Seventh time?

Other than that the lesson was uneventful, right up until Professor Snape graded their potions. When he came to Harry and Theo's brewing station, he looked down his nose piercingly at their potion, before blandly saying, "Outstanding work, Potter," leaving Harry immensely pleased and Theo gleefully amazed.

Then, after he was finished grading potions, Professor Snape surprised him even further. "Potter, stay behind," he said, not looking pained by the request like he normally would have in the past.

Harry did so, and was surprised when Professor Snape hesitated before speaking to him.

"I assume, Potter, that since I received no owls over the remainder of the summer, that you did not find yourself in need of anymore Dreamless Sleep potion."

Harry refrained from gaping this time, because he knew he'd be scolded for it. "I...weaned myself off of it, sir. I found a reasonable strategy for calming my sleep, once the stress and sleep deprivation was removed."

Professor Snape nodded slowly. "Practicing occlumency more strenuously before sleeping, I assume."

Harry's eyes widened. "You know?"

Professor Snape's eyebrow rose. "I know a great many things, Potter. You'd do well to remember that."

Harry refrained from grimacing. "Is that...all, sir?"

Professor Snape stared at him critically for a moment, before nodding sharply. "Dismissed."

* * *

"So," Harry said quietly, "We need to put together a set of requirements, and then consider how best to meet them with the use of the _protean_ charm."

He and Hermione were currently walking down an abandoned corridor on the sixth floor, speaking together in hushed tones. As they walked, Harry shifted uncomfortably, feeling the urge to adjust the spare wand he was keeping under his shirt – ever since hearing Draco's warning, he'd taken to carrying Tom's wand around with him, just in case something went very, very wrong.

Perhaps he should tuck it in his sock instead?

Meanwhile, Hermione nodded. "We should also discuss the scope. Are these objects going to be just for the four of us, or will we be giving them to the potential new members, as well?"

Harry pursed his lips. "Good question. I..." He paused. "That's a really good question. Because I think that would greatly change the requirements..."

Hermione sighed, coming to a halt in front of an abandoned classroom. "Do you want to maybe sit down?"

He nodded and followed her into the room, closing the door behind them.

"Maybe we should figure out what we _can_ do first," Hermione resumed as she sat down.

"You've read about the charm, Hermione, that's a really broad category. We need to narrow things down."

"Which we can't do without knowing the scope."

"Exactly." Harry glanced out the window at the far end of the classroom, eyes fixed on the red sun that was slowly sinking into the western horizon. "But...whatever, let's give it a try."

Hermione nodded eagerly. "So what's our main goal here?"

"Communication," Harry said immediately, "Remote communication."

"Over any range," Hermione added, beginning to etch out a diagram in her notebook.

Harry nodded. "But remember, range is irrelevant for the _protean_ charm."

"Right. So what sort of information do we need to communicate?"

Harry's gaze drifted out the window again, and he frowned as he considered all of the possible ways their magical objects could be used.

"There are two main types of communication," Hermione continued when he didn't respond right away, "Complex communication – messages – and simple communications – signs and alarms. Which type are we focusing on?"

"Both," Harry said immediately, "We need both. We need a secure and efficient way to send messages without using owls, and we need a way to agree on meeting times and alert each other to changes in schedule. Ideally, we should be able to contact each other instantaneously in the case of emergencies, also."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "For the first, you mentioned something similar to Tom Riddle's diary, where someone's message shows up in a notebook, and you can write back to them."

"That's right. But there are a few complications."

"Like...?"

"Well, the first involves another requirement – I guess it's not really necessary, and I've no idea how to accomplish it, but I think it would be really neat, and I think it could be really worth it."

Hermione's eyes sparkled. "And what is it?"

"There are actually a couple. One is record keeping. In Tom Riddle's diary, the messages would disappear immediately after writing them, right?"

"That's right."

"But wouldn't it nice if they didn't? If we had a record of every conversation we had? If we had the ability to look through old information we shared together? Like, have it automatically indexed like it would be in a book or something."

Hermione grinned. "Oh, that would be excellent!"

Harry nodded with a smile. "The second is that we're talking about communication between four people."

"And it would be nice to be able to contact someone without contacting everyone else."

"Exactly. And I'm not sure if the _protean_ charm can do that."

Hermione shook her head. "No, I don't believe it can. So we need something else..."

"Or," Harry began thoughtfully, "Just a better strategy."

Hermione frowned. "A better strategy?"

Harry nodded with a small smile. "The thing is, witches and wizards are lazy. We've got a spell for everything, so we rarely need to think outside the box the same way muggles do. We have magic to do all the work for us. So let's think like muggles for a moment. Pretend we have four people in four different rooms, who want to talk to each other. Each person has a choice – they can either send messages to one person and no one else, two people at once and not the fourth person, or they can communicate with everyone at once...but they can't change their mind about it. The question is, how can someone do one after choosing the other? And how can they all keep a written record of their conversations without having the communication channels getting clogged up."

Hermione's frown deepened and she pursed her lips – but a second later, her expression cleared, and she looked very excited. "Oh, channels! IRC!"

"IR-what?"

"IRC! Internet Relay Chat!"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"Yes! I mean – no! Just, there's this thing called the internet – it's something that a bunch of computers can connect to at once to share information. My cousin, the one that goes to MIT, told me about it."

"Alright, that sounds interesting...and relevant."

"Exactly! See, there's this thing called Internet Relay Chat, where several computers connect to something called a server – it's a place where electronic information can be stored and distributed. A computer can send information to the server, and the server can send it to someone else."

"Ok, go on."

"So the system is organized into channels, where a certain collection of computers can communicate without anyone else listening in."

"So just like radio then."

" _Except,_ " Hermione said with relish, "The server can store the information the computers are communicating. So if a computer on a certain channel wants to share information with the others on the channel, the message goes to the server, and the server stores it, and then sends it to everyone else on the same channel – and everyone can always see every other message that's been sent on the channel. If necessary, computers also have ways of searching text data."

"Brilliant! And if we can find somewhere secure to store the information, we could theoretically use a combination of _protean_ and copying charms to do the exact same thing! Except..."

"Except..."

"Well, from what I know, computers need to be, well, programmed to do things. I don't think there's a magical analogue."

Hermione's shoulders sagged. "Oh, right."

"The only spells with lasting effects that I know either rely on physical objects or rely on humans to provide the basis for the spell's actions, like the _imperius_ curse. What we need to do is study a spell that is permanently cast on an object and reacts to a certain set of potentially complex external inputs based on a short set of internal instructions."

"Well, the _protean_ charm does that."

"But all it does is copy whatever happens to one object to another thing. It doesn't change anything; there's no set of instructions, let alone complex ones to tell it what to do next."

"Yes, you're right of course...I can't think of a spell that does that."

"Neither can I, right now."

Hermione pursed her lips. "So what we need to do is find a spell that works sort of like a computer program, deconstruct it, work backwards, and build our own spell which works for this specific problem. That's a massive project, Harry."

His lips quirked upward. "You giving up already, Hermione?"

She looked outraged. "No! Of course not! I'm just trying to say, it could take a very long time, and I thought our time frame for this project was supposed to be kept as small as possible."

"Hmm...yes, you're right. Perhaps it's best we focus on simply sending messages and nothing more."

"So...buy four notebooks, cast three _protean_ charms on each, and use the parchment-clearing charm every time we're finished using them."

Harry nodded. "Sounds like a plan. I'll also use the invisibility spell cast on those schedules I gave you - I'll teach it to you as well. Perhaps I can tweak it so that it looks like there are random things written on the page - it might get a bit suspicious if we all start staring at blank pages."

"Excellent. That leaves simple communication – schedules and emergencies and whatnot."

"Yep. Let's see...we need some sort of secret alert system, something only the person being contacted will notice."

"So it can't be something that's seen or heard...or smelled."

"Unless," Harry pointed out, "We place an invisibility charm on it. A ward or something."

"But it would be nice to know someone's trying to make contact with you even if you're asleep or looking at something else," Hermione pointed out.

"Good point. Taste is ridiculous, so touch it is. What tactile properties could an object have?"

"Shape, texture, hardness, pliability, weight, and temperature."

"I vote temperature."

Hermione nodded. "I agree. So what should the object in question be?"

"Something that's always touching your skin."

"Jewellery?" Hermione suggested.

A smile curled on Harry's lips. "Invisible rings. Let's make invisible rings."

Hermione smiled back. "Sounds like a plan. It should be simple enough to link them to the notebooks, so when we cast a heating or cooling spell on them, it translates to the rings."

Harry grinned back at her. "Or we can be even more clever - surely there are potions that would react to the friction between the quill and the page, amplifying the heat created."

Hermione's eyes lit up. "Oh, that _is_ clever."

"Well, that's it then. Let's get to work!"

"Lead the way, fearless leader."

* * *

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. The heavy door of the Defence against the Dark Arts classroom slammed shut, and the clunking resumed, joined soon by the slightly comical image of Professor Moody had hobbling to the front of the room.

"You can put those away," he growled, limping over to his desk and sitting down with a thud, "Those books. You won't need them."

Professor Moody took looked on with narrow eyes as his students did as they were told, only retrieving the student register once they were all quietly seated again, staring at him apprehensively. Grunting, he shook his long mane of grizzled gray hair out of his twisted and scarred face, and began to call out names, his human eye moving steadily down the list while his magical eye swivelled around, fixing upon each student as they answered, voices more feeble than usual. Even Harry found his voice a little softer than usual when he announced, "Present."

"Right then," Professor Moody said, when the last person had declared themselves, "I've had a letter from Professor Lupin about this class."

Harry's eyebrows rose. Professor Moody had _actually_ thought to coordinate their curriculum? That had never happened before.

"Seems you've had a pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark creatures - you've covered boggarts, Red Caps, hinkypunks, grindylows, Kappas, and werewolves, is that right?"

There was a general murmur of assent, while Hermione enunciated, "Yes sir," very clearly, drawing a few snickers.

"But you're behind - very behind - on dealing with curses," Professor Moody stated. "So I'm here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I've got one year to teach you how to deal with dark -"

"What, aren't you staying?" Ron Weasley blurted out.

Professor Moody's magical eye spun around to stare at Ron, who looked extremely apprehensive at the attention directed at him, but after a moment Professor Moody smiled. The effect was to make his heavily scarred face look more twisted and contorted than ever, but it was fascinating to observe that the man was capable of more than...grumpiness.

Ron looked deeply relieved by the gesture.

"You'll be Arthur Weasley's son, eh?" Professor Moody said. "Your father got me out of a very tight corner a few days ago..."

Draco snorted quietly, going stiff when Harry turned to glare at him.

"Yeah, I'm staying just the one year. Special favour to Dumbledore...one year, and then back to my quiet retirement." He gave a harsh laugh, and then clapped his gnarled hands together. "So - straight into it. Curses. They come in many strengths and forms. Now, according to the Ministry of Magic, I'm supposed to teach you countercurses and leave it at that. I'm not supposed to show you what illegal dark curses look like until you're in the sixth year. You're not supposed to be old enough to deal with it till then. But Professor Dumbledore's got a higher opinion of your nerves -"

 _Does he now?_

"- and he reckons you can cope, and I say, the sooner you know what you're up against, the better. How are you supposed to defend yourself against something you've never seen? A wizard who's about to put an illegal curse on you isn't going to tell you what he's about to do. He's not going to do it nice and polite to your face. You need to be prepared. You need to be alert and watchful. You need to put that away, Miss Brown, when I'm talking."

Lavender Brown jumped and blushed.

Harry raised an eyebrow. Apparently Professor Moody's magical eye could see through solid wood. That was certainly something to remember.

"So...do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by wizarding law?"

Everyone stared at him awkwardly, causing him to let out some sort of noise that indicated displeasure. He pointed jerkily at Harry. "Potter."

Harry refrained from frowning. "The aptly named unforgivable curses, sir."

"Exactly. Now who can name one for me?"

Several hands rose tentatively into the air, including Ron's and Hermione's. None of the Slytherins, however, made a move. Though not all of his housemates detested and/or feared Professor Moody, those who didn't had quickly picked up on the strong sentiments of those who did, and seemed to have found themselves instinctively reserved in his presence. That was Harry's theory, either way.

Professor Moody pointed at Ron, though his magical eye was still fixed on Brown.

"Er," said Ron tentatively, "My dad told me about one...is it called the _imperius_ curse, or something?"

"Ah, yes," Professor Moody said appreciatively. "Your father would know that one. Gave the Ministry a lot of trouble at one time, the Imperius Curse." Professor Moody's eye swivelled over to Draco, who straightened in his seat and dared to glare back.

The man got heavily to his mismatched feet, opened his desk drawer, and took out a glass jar. Three large black spiders were scuttling around inside it. He reached into the jar, caught one of the spiders, and held it in the palm of his hand so that they could all see it. He then pointed his wand at it and muttered, " _Imperio_!"

Harry nearly gasped. The _unforgivables_ were being _demonstrated_ for them in _class?_

 _Now this_ is _interesting._

The spider leapt from Professor Moody's hand on a fine thread of silk and began to swing backward and forward as though on a trapeze. It stretched out its legs rigidly, then did a back flip, breaking the thread and landing on the desk, where it began to cartwheel in circles. Professor Moody jerked his wand, and the spider rose onto two of its hind legs and went into what was unmistakably a tap dance.

Most of the class was laughing now, the Gryffindors making particularly boisterous sounds whilst the Slytherins snickered in each other's ears. Harry was simply transfixed, recalling clearly how it felt to cast the curse four years ago on Professor Snape.

"Think it's funny, do you?" Professor Moody growled. "You'd like it, would you, if I did it to you?" The laughter died away almost instantly.

"Total control," the man said quietly as the spider balled itself up and began to roll over and over. "I could make it jump out of the window, drown itself, throw itself down one of your throats..." His magical eye rolled around the class. "Years back, there were a lot of witches and wizards being controlled by the Imperius Curse. Some job for the Ministry, trying to sort out who was being forced to act, and who was acting of their own free will." He looked at them gravely. "The Imperius Curse can be fought, and I'll be teaching you how, but it takes real strength of character, and not everyone's got it. Better avoid being hit with it if you can. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" he barked, and everyone jumped.

Professor Moody picked up the somersaulting spider and threw it back into the jar. "Anyone else know one? Another unforgivable curse?"

Hermione's hand flew into the air again and so, to Harry's slight surprise, did Neville's.

"Yes?" Professor Moody's magical eye rolling right over to fix on Neville.

"Th-there's one - the c _ruciatus_ curse," said Neville in a small but distinct voice.

Professor Moody was looking very intently at Neville, this time with both eyes, and Harry found himself holding his breath. There was something very...odd, unnerving, about the way the Professor was now staring at Neville – Harry didn't know how interpret the sentiment, but it was certainly there.

"Your name's Longbottom?" Professor Moody said, his magical eye swooping down to check the register again.

Neville nodded nervously, but the man made no further inquiries. Turning back to the class, he reached into the jar for the next spider and placed it upon the desktop, where it remained motionless, apparently too scared to move.

"The c _ruciatus_ curse," Professor Moody announced. "Needs to be a bit bigger for you to get the idea," he said, pointing his wand at the spider. " _Engorgio_!"

The spider swelled, and it was now larger than a tarantula. Ron gave a yelp of fright.

Professor Moody raised his wand again, pointed it at the spider, and muttered, " _Crucio_!"

Harry's heart skipped a beat.

At once, the spider's legs bent in upon its body; it rolled over and began to twitch horribly, rocking from side to side.

Suddenly memories rushed into Harry's head, of the many dreams he'd been plagued of, of Tom casting the torture curse gleefully – on Nott, on Avery, on Malfoy...on Celeste – and he could feel his cheeks heating up and his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

Professor Moody kept his wand fixed in place, and the spider started to shudder and jerk more violently -

"Stop it!" Hermione said shrilly.

Startled from a reverie, Harry looked around at her. She was looking, not at the spider, but at Neville, and Harry, following her gaze, saw that Neville's hands were clenched upon the desk in front of him, his knuckles white, his eyes wide and horrified.

Professor Moody raised his wand. The spider's legs relaxed, but it continued to twitch. Harry felt a pang of sympathy, remembering how he was sore for days after Diary-Tom cast it on him.

" _Reducio_ ," Professor Moody muttered, and the spider shrank back to its proper size. He put it back into the jar.

"You alright?"

Harry turned to look at Theo, startled. "Do I not look alright?" he whispered.

Theo raised eyebrow, appearing to be disguising some unease. "You look like you just snogged a girl."

Harry straightened in his seat. "I was just...distracted."

Theo nodded slowly.

"Pain," Professor Moody said softly, "You don't need thumbscrews or knives to torture someone if you can perform the _cruciatus_ curse...that one was very popular once too. Right . . . anyone know the last one?"

Hermione's hand shook slightly as, for the third time, she raised it into the air.

"Yes?"

" _Avada Kedavra_ ," Hermione whispered.

Several people looked uneasily around at her.

"Ah," Professor Moody mused, another slight smile twisting his lopsided mouth. "Yes, the last and worst. _Avada Kedavra_ ...the Killing Curse."

He put his hand into the glass jar, and almost as though it knew what was coming, the third spider scuttled frantically around the bottom of the jar, trying to evade Moody's fingers, but he trapped it, and placed it upon the desktop. It started to scuttle frantically across the wooden surface. Moody raised his wand, and again, Harry's was suddenly aware of his own thoughts. Or rather, aware of the absence of his own thoughts. Between Tom's memories and his duel in the Chamber of Secrets, he had seen the curse many times already, and he felt...oddly unaffected, as he watched his professor take aim at the little spider, who really hadn't done anything wrong, and was about to have its soul ripped from its body.

Do spiders have souls?

" _Avada Kedavra_!"

There was a flash of blinding green light and a rushing sound, as though a vast, invisible tidal wave was soaring through the air - instantaneously the spider rolled over onto its back, unmarked, but unmistakably dead.

Several of the students stifled cries.

Professor Moody swept the dead spider off the desk onto the floor, and Harry watched it fall, finding himself more interested in the dead arachnid than he had been in the curse itself.

"Not nice," he said calmly. "Not pleasant. And there's no countercurse. There's no blocking it. Only one known person has ever survived it, and he's sitting right in front of me."

Harry's eyes lingered on the spider, which was now lying limply on the stone floor, for a moment longer, but then his bright green eyes rose to meet the poor spider's murderer, his face perfectly blank, just like Moody's was.

"Avada Kedavra's a curse that needs a powerful bit of magic behind it - you could all get your wands out now and point them at me and say the words, and I doubt I'd get so much as a nosebleed."

Tom scoffed.

Harry absently wondered what would happen if _he_ cast the killing curse at Professor Moody.

"But that doesn't matter. I'm not here to teach you how to do it. Now, if there's no countercurse, why am I showing you? Because you've got to know. You've got to appreciate what the worst is. You don't want to find yourself in a situation where you're facing it. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" he roared, and the whole class jumped again. "Now... as Potter said, those three curses — Avada Kedavra, Imperius, and Cruciatus — are known as the Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one of them on a fellow human being is enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban. That's what you're up against. That's what I've got to teach you to fight. You need preparing. You need arming. But most of all, you need to practice constant, never-ceasing vigilance. Get out your quills...copy this down..."

Harry obeyed, but he never entirely took his eyes off of Professor Moody, whose magical eye never left him.

* * *

The class passed quickly after that, and soon found himself following his friends out of the classroom.

"Of all the irresponsible, insensitive things he could have done on our first class!" Hermione was ranting at him, whilst Draco and Theo chatted about something behind them, "Sure, it was fascinating – but not everyone wants to see that! Not everyone _should_ see that. I don't know what Professor Dumbledore was thinking, letting that -"

She stopped short, all of a sudden, leaving him puzzled, but when he followed her eyes, he saw why.

Neville was standing alone, halfway up the passage, staring at the stone wall opposite him with the same horrified, wide-eyed look he had worn when Moody had demonstrated the _cruciatus_ curse. "Neville?" Hermione said gently, walking over to him.

Neville looked around frantically. "Oh hello," he said, his voice much higher than usual. "Interesting lesson, wasn't it? I wonder what's for dinner, I'm - I'm starving, aren't you?"

"Neville, are you all right?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine," Neville gabbled in the same unnaturally high voice. "Very interesting dinner — I mean lesson — what's for eating?"

"No idea, but it will probably be delicious," Harry said, and Hermione spun around, shocked to find him there.

He smiled at her, and then over at Neville. "You've got a free period, right, Neville?"

He looked startled. "Oh – oh, yes, I suppose I do."

"Well, then, how about the two of us go for a walk? Hermione's got class, you see."

Hermione blinked, and then gasped. "Oh my word, I'm going to be late for Muggle Studies!"

Harry looked at Neville as she ran off. "I think she just takes it to spite me, to be honest."

Neville looked bewildered at the statement.

"Never mind. Follow me."

Harry led Neville down some stairs, glancing behind him every so often to make sure the other boy was still following him. Neither of them said a word, and the only sound that could be heard was their softly pattering footsteps as they traversed several dark passageways, until Harry came to a halt in front of the door of an empty classroom, and Neville collided with his back.

Not minding at all, Harry pushed the slightly squeaking door open, and found a seat, gesturing for Neville to do the same.

"I hope you don't mind me being so bossy," Harry said idly as he traced the knots in the desk in front of him with his finger. "But I figured you wouldn't be in the mood for making any decisions, when you're like this."

Neville let out a high pitched laugh. "L-like what?"

Harry glanced over at the door, which Neville had left opened.

His gaze sharpened, and it slammed shut with a snap a moment later, causing Neville to jump.

"Reminiscing," Harry said softly, "Caught up in a memory...of something horrible."

Neville stared at him with wide eyes.

"Memory's a strange thing. People don't usually acknowledge it, but there are memories that stay with you – memories of things you never experienced. Like aftershocks. You feel the effects so violently that you form this startlingly accurate impression of what caused them in the first place."

Neville looked entranced by his words, though he seemed to be struggling with keeping up.

"When I was visiting Sirius in the hospital, I met two people – Frank and Alice Longbottom."

Neville stifled a small gasp, and it came out like a small whimper.

"I recognized them, when the nurse called your mother's name."

Neville's bottom lip was trembling at this point.

Harry did him the courtesy of looking away. "There's this sad little fact that never made it into the Daily Prophet – you see, growing up, I thought my parents were good-for-nothing drunks who died in an accident. I didn't even know I was a wizard."

He glanced over at Neville, who seemed to be struggling to comprehend what he was saying.

"That's what my...relatives told me. So when I found out I was a wizard, I found out that they were murdered...killed while they were protecting me. The beginnings of a memory formed. But I couldn't leave it like that – I had to know more. I had to find out everything I could about it. So I sneaked into the Daily Prophet Archives and read every article I could on Lord Voldemort -"

Neville flinched.

"- and his Death Eaters. So, inevitably, I read this article, about a woman called Bellatrix Lestrange."

He heard Neville shift in his seat.

"At her trial she was accused of torturing Frank and Alice Longbottom until they...well until they lost their minds. She happily plead guilty." Harry paused. "She did to you what Voldemort did to me."

Neville's eyes were fixed on the wall behind Harry.

"Do you hate her?" he asked quietly, eyes returning to the other boy's face.

Neville looked him straight in the eye, now, and Harry could see that Neville's blue eyes were shrouded in unfallen tears.

"Do you hate You-Know-" his small voice trailed off, before he straightened himself and went on in a much firmer tone, "V-Voldemort?"

Tom was conspicuously silent.

Harry hesitated. "No," he admitted honestly.

Neville looked startled by the answer, before a shaky, dark look passed over his face. "W-well, I h-hate her."

Harry nodded, eyeing Neville closely. "Would you kill her, given the chance?"

Neville looked terrified by the question. "I...I...sh-she's in Azkaban!"

"She is."

Suddenly, his eyes opened wide. "Un-unless...you don't think she could...escape, like your godfather did, do you?"

Harry thought about this for a moment. If she was an animagus, Tom would know, and so he probably would as well. "No, I don't think she could."

Neville just nodded, and Harry didn't know whether he was relieved or disappointed.

A few moments of silence passed between them, before Harry spoke up, "You've got nothing to be ashamed of, you know, it's a terrible curse."

"N-no one else got as upset as I did," Neville said in a very small voice.

"Maybe not...but that just proves they don't understand. It proves that you're better than them."

Neville looked at him with wide eyes.

"The unforgivable curses, we know what they can do, you and I. We understand how much pain they can cause and what they can take away from people. We might be the only people who walked out of that classroom and actually learned what Professor Moody was trying to teach us."

"What was he trying to teach us?" Neville asked quietly.

"That our world is a dangerous one. And that unimaginable pain and death might await us behind only a word or two."

Neville nodded mutely.

"You're not a coward, Neville. It takes a lot of bravery to face the world when you know what's out there."

At this point, Neville was looking at him with an expression that vaguely resembled awe.

"Do you...er, feel a bit better now?"

Neville started, but a moment later smiled softly and nodded. "Thanks, Harry."

Harry returned his smile with a sad one. "Don't mention it." He rose to his feet. "Now, I'm off to the library. Would you like to come along?"

"Oh! Er, sure."

Harry smiled and nodded, rising to his feet and striding toward the door, Neville following behind. When he opened the classroom door, however, he found Theo there, leaning against the wall opposite to the doorway.

He blinked. "Theo?"

"I..." the other boy hesitated, and grimaced slightly.

Harry looked over his shoulder at Neville, who seemed a little puzzled, and stepped to the side.

"I'll catch up with you Neville," Harry said, eyes still trained on Neville.

Awkwardly glancing between Harry and Theo, Neville nodded and all but scurried off.

Harry and Theo stared at each other silently for a moment, and just as Harry was starting to grow admittedly wary, Theo gestured at the classroom door. "Can I come in?"

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Password?"

Theo rolled his eyes. "Harry Potter thinks he's funnier than he is."

Harry's lips twitched. "Got it in one. Come on in, friend."

Theo chuckled and followed him into the classroom, closing the door behind him.

They both sat down, once again staring at each other wordlessly.

"I'm going to be blunt," Theo began.

"I do appreciate efficiency," Harry put in.

Theo gave him half a smile, which Harry returned. "I know you do. I know you appreciate honesty too, even though you're a complete hypocrite about it."

The smile slipped off of Harry's face.

"Not that I'm criticizing you or anything!" Theo added hurriedly, "I'm just saying...you have secrets, and that's your right, I just..."

"What is it, Theo?" Harry asked in a no-nonsense tone.

"A year ago you told us that you had...acquired memories, memories that didn't belong to. You theorized that they probably belonged to the Dark Lord, but...you implied that there wasn't quite enough information to make this judgment."

Harry nodded slowly, all the while aware of Tom's palpable irritation.

"I have a theory. That you were misleading Hermione and I."

Harry felt himself stiffen slightly.

"I think you have more than enough of these memories to know exactly what they are. I think you know the Dark Lord well at this point...perhaps better than anyone else," Theo said bluntly.

"What brought this on?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"The Unforgivables," Theo said slowly. "The way you looked when...most of the students were shocked or awed - they're powerful curses, and legendary at that. But you didn't react. You've seen them before. Actually...you _did_ react - to the _cruciatus_ curse." He paused. "My father told me once that the Dark Lord took great pleasure in casting it. He said I wouldn't understand until I was older...and I think I now know what he meant by that."

Harry's head was now pounding. "Theo -"

"I've always had questions, you know - you're clever and powerful, Harry, no one can deny it, but you knew too much too quickly, for someone raised by muggles who hate magic. There are too many holes in your story."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "If that were the case, don't you think someone else would have something to say? Professor Dumbledore or Professor Snape? Hermione? Draco?"

Theo shook his head. "No, they wouldn't. Because even if any of them knew as much about your skills and when you acquired them as I do - which they don't - I have one crucial piece of information which will be lost on them forever."

"And what's that?" Harry asked lowly.

"Your first week at Hogwarts."

Harry frowned.

"All of the other students...for them, coming to Hogwarts was the beginning of endless possibilities; we all felt excitement, and uncertainty...and any resolve we felt or plans we made were nebulous at best. But not yours."

Harry's hands twitched.

"You knew what you had to do from the beginning," Theo whispered, "I remember it so clearly - how _sad_ , how _scared_ , how _disappointed_ you looked when I found out you were a parselmouth. You knew what you had to do. It was like...there was a plan in place; it was like you were just _following protocol._ It was like you were prepared in your mind, but not your heart. You knew more than what your experiences had taught you; you had all this information you barely knew how to deal with. Because you've done all this before, in a way." Theo sat up straight. "I don't even know the half of it, do I? You can do things, you know things, that I can't even begin to guess."

Harry wanted to respond, to deny it, but he found his mouth had gone dry.

"And when you talk about reform, and revolution - about creating a better world - you know exactly what you're saying, don't you? These aren't vague ambitions and hopes and dreams - these are _plans._ You're not talking about starting something new; you're talking about finishing what the Dark Lord started."

"I..." Harry took a shuddering breath, completely lost. Tom's irritation and the pain building in his head had vanished, leaving him with no direction, no idea how to feel. "I'm not like him...I don't...I'll never condone terrorism, or genocide, or -"

"But that's not the point, is it?" Theo interjected.

"Then what is the point?" Harry asked quietly.

Theo hesitated. "The point is that...this is real. The point is that...I think I know, now, what I'm signing up for."

"Do you?" Harry whispered.

"Yeah, I think I do."

Harry nodded slowly. "And what will you do, now that you know?"

He looked up to find a small smile on Theo's face. "I told you in June, didn't I? I'll follow you anywhere."

A small smile crept across Harry's lips, as he stared intently at Theo, who seemed so much older, so much more resolute, so much more...trustworthy, than he had ever before imagined him to be. "You won't regret it."

"I know I won't."

Harry's smile twitched into a grin, fueled by satisfaction both foreign and internal.

* * *

 _Why do you indulge the Longbottom boy?_

Harry shrugged, jotting down another point in his diary, where he was outlining his Charms essay, which he planned to supplement with some theories he had formed while reading his mother's letters. The topic of the essay was mundane enough; warming and cooling charms - they were supposed to discuss the merits and disadvantages of charms that affected the object rather than the air around it. But Harry had other plans.

Sure, he was going to discuss advantages and disadvantages; but he was going to do this in the context of _inverses._

Inverses were curious in that they were occasionally counter-spells, but were often parallel spells or anti-parallel spells; that is, a spell could undo its inverse, but it could also do roughly the same thing as its inverse, or do the opposite - it all depended on the nature of the magic being done. For temperature charms, inverses, if Harry's hypothesis was correct, would come in the second form - they would do the very same thing as their light counterpart, only...differently. And likely much more violently.

Anyway, Harry was going to argue that judging what kind of temperature charm to use would depend on the use case, and that this decision might be best made with the inverse in mind, given that the use of the inverse would likely represent an extreme instance of the original spell. He was also going to posit that he would be able to recreate the exact same results, regardless of whether he used the spell (e.g., the flesh warming charm or variation thereof) or his inverse (the blood boiling curse); he was going to assert that given enough magical and emotional control - both achievable to some degree through occlumency - the caster could perform the exact same spell despite the difference in the incantation and wand movements, independent of even the nature of the magic itself. He was then going to ask, would such a feat be an example of genuine neutral, or grey, magic?

In Harry's humble opinion, this was a great question, and an exceptionally interesting essay topic, and he had a feeling Professor Flitwick would agree. He was very much hoping that Professor Flitwick would request proof of his claims; he would be practicing the warming charm tirelessly until then. He thought it was the perfect opportunity to study the difference between casting light and dark magic, in a very clean, specific use case, and he had hoped that Tom would be interested as well...

However, apparently Tom was more interest in his social life, tonight.

"Why not?"

 _Because he is timid, weak, and a poor excuse for a Gryffindor. And these are the words of one who already thinks quite poorly of Gryffindors._

Harry pursed his lips, setting his quill down. "I don't think he's weak. I just think he's...behind."

 _Behind what?_

"No, I mean...he still has to grow up. He's still a kid."

 _As are you._

Harry scowled. "You know what I mean, Tom."

 _Perhaps. But that does not explain why you waste your time on him._

"I don't think it's a waste, though...he fascinates me."

 _He...fascinates you,_ Tom repeated, a little incredulously.

Harry nodded. "He could've been me. You could have ended up in his head instead."

 _That would have never come to pass._

"Why not?"

 _Alice Longbottom was a pureblood witch and an auror, but the mental acuity and magical sophistication your mother must have possessed was unrivalled. Alice Longbottom would have never been able to protect her son from me._

Harry smiled – he loved it when Tom complimented his mother...even if it was technically complimenting himself. "But suppose she had, somehow. Then Neville would have been me, right?"

 _No._

"No?"

 _You possess and exemplify a singularly unique quality that the Longbottom boy will never be able to embody._

Harry frowned. "What's that?"

 _The capacity for greatness._

A smile spread across Harry's face at those words, but he couldn't help but point out, "Is that really a quality?"

 _A singularly unique one. A synthesis of one's past, present, and future; of nature and nurture, and of destiny._

"Have you ever considered becoming a poet, Tom?"

 _No._

Just as well. What sort of poetry would Tom write anyway?

 _'Roses are red, violets are blue,  
'Dumbledore sucks, and Voldemort rules.'_

Harry collapsed into a fit of giggles, trying but failing to calm his breathing as he gasped for air.

 _What in god's name is wrong with you, child?_

Still shaking with mirth, Harry flipped to a new page in his diary and scribbled out the silly rhyme.

A moment of silence followed, during which Harry held his breath...but then Tom did something very unexpected. He snorted. In a rather undignified manner.

 _Foolish child._

He really couldn't argue with that.

* * *

And that's a wrap!


	8. Total Control

**Disclaimer:** To exhausted to go through the mental anguish of realizing I don't own any part of Harry Potter whatsoever.

 **AN:** Ok, so some of you might remember that one time I had a stupid scene in this chapter that involved...you know, it's not really clear what happened. I wasn't thinking, that's honestly the only excuse I can think of. Anyway, it's now officially replaced with a joke about nuclear bombs...because though I obviously don't remember much chem or physics...but I remember nuclear fission! Which probably actually says really bad things about me...

* * *

 **Chapter 8: Total Control**

 _'We would like to invite you to join a unique extracurricular study group of a clandestine nature. If you are interested, speak of this to no one, and sign your name on the dotted line. If you do so, further instructions will appear below. If you do not sign this note within the first 24 hours after picking it up, it will disappear._

 _..._

 _Please arrive at the Seventh Floor Corridor at seven fifty-four pm on the night of October the twentieth.'_

Harry read the note over again before placing it in an envelope marked _'Open when alone',_ doing the same with the three other notes and envelopes sitting on the table.

"Done?" Theo asked from his chair beside him. They were both seated in a secluded corner of the library, where Harry had been writing and charming invitations for the potential new members of the Order.

Harry nodded as he sealed the envelopes.

"One for each of them, then?"

"That's right."

"And you'll meet them all separately?"

Harry shook his head. "I'll meet with Terry and Michael together, and then with Daphne and Tracey."

Theo frowned. "Why in pairs?"

"By my estimation, Terry and Michael are more likely to join if they know the other one is joining. If I meet with them together they will both suspect the other of wanting to join, and they'll both agree in the end."

Theo nodded in understanding. "Right. And you know Daphne will want to join, because she'd join bloody You-Know-Who if she knew you'd be there, but Tracey probably won't unless she knows Daphne's going, because she's apathetic to everything except for gossip and her roommates."

"Exactly," Harry said, pocketing the notes. "When's our next class?"

"Fifteen minutes until Transfiguration."

"Good. That'll be enough time."

"Where are you going anyway?"

"The kitchens," Harry explained, "I've convinced one of the elves to place them on their pillows."

"How do you _do_ that?"

"What?"

"Just...just...get the bloody elves to work for you?"

Harry shrugged. "Visiting them periodically and saying thank you goes a long way."

"Whatever you say, Harry."

Harry rolled his eyes. He wasn't exactly lying. The poor Hogwarts elves were attention-starved, as were many house elves, it would seem; even the students who would periodically sneak into the kitchens for an impromptu snack would, for the most part, ignore them. Those that didn't usually talked down to them or patronized them, likely thinking the elves too dim to notice...but they did notice. And however well they hid it, they _did_ bear some resentment toward this treatment. The elves loved serving, and they knew _objectively_ that their work was appreciated...but being non-human magical creatures didn't alleviate them of one very glaring weakness that seemed to haunt nearly every sentient being – insecurity. So let's just say that when Harry made regular treks into the kitchen to eat with them, while encouraging them to bemoan their hidden resentments, all the while showing genuine sympathy and reassuring them just how much he appreciated them, he gained the loyalty of quite a few very powerful magical creatures...who happened to produce delicious food. A worthwhile investment if he ever saw one.

"Would you like to come along?"

Theo grimaced. "I...don't really...like house elves."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Fair enough. See you in fifteen minutes, then."

And with that he took off in a brisk stride, simultaneously pulling out of his pocket a letter that arrived that morning.

 _Dear Harry,_

 _How dare you not reply to my last letter. I poured my heart and soul onto that piece of parchment, and how do you repay me? Stone cold silence. That's heartless even for you, kiddo._

 _That unpleasantness aside, you're doing well, I suppose? I feel compelled to point out that I haven't gotten any letters from professors detailing your exploits and subsequent detentions – I fully expect to have one by the end of term, though. I'd suggest setting Snivellus's hair on fire – I imagine it wouldn't be especially difficult, what with all the grease._

 _As for myself, work at the DMLE is as dull as ever, but there have been a few entertaining cases – we arrested a witch the other day for turning her husband into a toad and keeping him in a bread box...his colleagues reported his absence and the witch wasn't exactly discrete about the fact that she'd managed to repay him for his...indiscretions. Never get married, Harry. It's not worth it._

 _Either way, the first of my exams is in a few weeks, so, yes, I've been practising. I've also been practising the guitar line for 'Thunderstruck' – I've almost got it up to speed. The motorcycle's nearly finished as well – I'll take you for a ride when you come back for Christmas. All that is to say, of course, don't worry, I've been keeping busy, and I haven't watched any Star Trek without you._

 _Anyway, you had better write back this time. I won't take any excuses. Do play a few pranks, and remember to send word when you complete your first transformation._

 _Sirius_

 _P.S._

 _My friend hasn't come up with anything new; the last lead turned out to be a false trail. Have you had any progress on your end?_

 _P.P.S._

 _Stay safe._

Harry smiled as he read Sirius's post-post script, but a frown worked his way back onto his face when he read the initial post script again. Draco had attempted the potion from _Medicines of the Mind_ , but had failed, with nearly disastrous results; when they tested the substance on a very unfortunate field mouse, its eyes turned pink and fell out, just before all its hair fell off and its skin shrivelled to a sickly grey. Draco had looked quite ill at the sight. So it would be at least another month until he made any progress on allowing Tom's master soul to unwittingly invade his mind, which he, in all honesty, was not at all looking forward to.

He admittedly bore a bit of a grudge against the Sorting Hat – both for infiltrating his mind and giving him such a hard time about being sorted into Slytherin, where he clearly belonged – but the tattered configuration of warbling leather didn't really seem like a bad...entity, all things considered. Voldemort 1.0, however, did. He didn't want the master soul in his head, and he didn't want to be in the master soul's head. In fact, he'd just rather stay away entirely until he was a world-renowned duellist, unstoppable legillimens, experienced strategist, and general magical powerhouse. Preferably Phoenix Force or Galactus level (eating planets had always appealed to him on some level). Whenever that was going to happen.

Harry sighed as he descended the stairs down to the kitchens. He was reaonably certain he could best most, if not all, of his schoolmates, even the NEWT-level ones – if his duelling skills failed him then he could always just incinerate them with fiendfyre, which was pretty much impossible for the average which or wizard to block...not that he would ever actually do that – but that was little consolation when his true adversaries took the form of Lord Voldemort and Albus Dumbledore...and every time he was forced to interact with either of them he was brutally reminded of this fact.

He absently mused on how great it would be if the two older wizards just managed to off each other as he tickled the peach in the fruit bowl.

"Master Harry!"

Forcing thoughts of his imminent mortality to the back of his mind, he grinned down at the elves that had run over to greet him.

"Good afternoon, I hope you're all well," he said pleasantly.

"Indeed, indeed sir! What can we be doing for sir today?"

"Well, if I could have my way, I'd certainly like to share some tea and scones with all of you...you certainly look like you could use a break -" the elves' eyes sparkled "- but unfortunately I have to be at class soon."

The elves were visibly disappointed, but only for a moment. "Of course sir. What will sir be needing then?"

"Do you know where Toffy is?"

"Over here, sir!"

"Ah, excellent." He fished the notes he had written out of his pocket and handed them to the small house elf that had just trotted up to him. "If you could please do as we discussed, I'd be incredibly grateful."

"Oh, of course, sir!"

Harry grinned. "Thank you again, Toffy. I really do appreciate it – I can't really trust anyone but you and your friends with a task like this. Well, let's be honest, even if I could, you'd still be my first choice."

Toffy beamed at him.

"Now, I really must be going – I've got class in -" he glanced down at his watch and grimaced "- seven minutes."

He said his goodbyes quickly and set off in a quick jog, eager to avoid being late for Professor McGonagall's class. He'd managed to remain on her good side for three years already, despite constantly trouncing her House Team and stealing the House Cup from under her nose, and no doubt losing her many a galleon if rumours that she and the other Heads of House made bets on inter-house competitions were to be believed. He wasn't going to give up his good standing now, when he'd already come so far.

He straightened his uniform out and caught his breath when he arrived in front of the door of the Transfiguration classroom, composing himself so he could enter the room in a state that was at least remotely dignified.

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow when he slipped in and sat down beside Theo just as the clock struck 1 pm, but didn't say anything else, so he considered it a success.

* * *

 _"Diviso!"_

"No, no, stop everyone!" Harry called.

Everyone immediately stopped casting spells, looking at Harry, puzzled.

"I have to write something down," he explained, pulling his diary out of his pocket.

"Are you _serious_?" Theo asked.

"Mhm."

"This had better be a _very_ good idea," Hermione said flatly.

"And you'd better teach it to us," Theo put in.

Harry grinned and snapped his notebook shut. "I was just wondering if, by some feat of magical precision, nuclear fission might be possible by purely magical means." His eyes glimmered. "I'm not even sure about how you'd even go about it but - _what if_?"

 _A worthwhile project, for sure,_ Tom commented.

Hermione, of course, looked outraged. "You were _what_? Honestly, I cannot believe you. Of all the -"

"I'm just interested in particle physics," Harry said innocently. "And sustainable energy."

"You're an idiot," Hermione hissed, "If you think that that's a remotely good idea -"

"Well _I_ think it's a great idea," Draco said pompously.

" _You_ don't even know what we're talking about," Hermione snapped.

"I do too!"

"It's a muggle thing."

Draco went a little red in the face.

"Typical," Hemione muttered.

"Watch it, Granger."

"Or _what_ , Malfoy?"

"Okay, this is ridiculous," Theo said sourly, "Can we please not do this again?"

"Do what again?" Hermione and Draco asked at the same time.

"Just... _Merlin_."

"I think what Theo means to say is that you two seem to have some variation of this very same argument nearly every meeting. It's actually kind of unnerving," Harry explained.

Hermione and Draco eyed each other with distaste.

Harry sighed. "Anyway, that was a lovely warm up, but before we go on, Hermione and I have something to show you two."

Draco's eyebrows rose and Theo perked up. "You finished the project?" Theo asked.

"Yup!" Harry said as he walked over to his book bag. "We're still working on something more complex, but that will take a while, so we made these."

He pulled two small notebooks, two muggle pens, and two rings out of his bag, and handed them to Theo and Draco.

"Harry and I have a set too," Hermione said. "Basically, we can write messages in our notebooks and they'll appear in everyone else's notebooks; the last three labeled pages are dedicated to messages for other individuals. You wear the rings on your fingers – they're invisible when you put them on, and they'll heat up every time a new message is posted – the pages of the notebook are coated with a potion that reacts with ink – so you're notified. Every 24 hours the notebooks will clear, so that they don't get filled up too quickly, but a parchment-clearing charm will do the trick. We've also spelled each notebook so that after you write your name on the first page, only you can read it."

"Amazing!" Theo exclaimed, before frowning down at the other object in his hand. "But what's _this?"_ He held up the muggle pen with a bewildered look on his face.

"A muggle pen," Hermione explained.

" _Muggles_ made it?" Draco said with something between disdain and incredulity in his voice.

"Oh for god's sake, Malfoy -"

"They're for emergencies," Harry interjected. "There might be times when we need to contact each other in a difficult situation; these pens are spelled with a charm that will cause the rings to freeze briefly when they touch the pages of the notebook. In general, though, muggle pens are easier to use than quills. It's easier to jot down quick notes without messing anything up."

"I'm _not_ using something a muggle made," Draco said in disgust.

Harry gave him a look.

"Maybe...just for emergencies," he mumbled.

Harry beamed at him. "Excellent! Now! How about we switch things around a bit and do some research!"

Hermione glared. "No, absolutely not."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "I can think of at least ten good reasons to teach wizardkind to leverage the power of nuclear fission."

"They're all bad reasons," Hermione said dismissively. "Come on, it's Thursday. We're supposed to duel."

"We all know you'd prefer research, Hermione -"

 _"Stupefy!"_

Harry deflected with a wordless _protego._ "This isn't over," he muttered. _"Agua telum! Glacius!"_

* * *

"So," Terry said awkwardly, "Study group, eh? Why, um...is it, er, clandestine?"

Michael glared at him. "Eloquent as ever, Terry." He turned to Harry. "What's this about? I have a potions essay to write."

Harry smiled politely. "Like I mentioned in my note, I've started a group with some of my other friends -"

"Meaning Nott, Granger, and probably Malfoy, I presume," Michael interrupted impatiently.

Harry paused, before nodding. "That's correct. Now, it's by nature a study group, so our activities are geared toward discovery and learning. It is clandestine because we place no restrictions on what we can and cannot learn."

"Wait, why does that mean it has to be clandestine?" Terry asked, puzzled.

"Because, idiot, they practise the dark arts." Michael turned to Harry. "That's what you're trying to say, in Slytherin-speak, right?"

Terry gaped.

Harry paused again. "We haven't learnt anything especially dangerous. We mostly focus on spells that are useful in duelling, and we practise duelling regularly. It's essentially a duelling club, with a bit of other experimentation thrown in, such as warding techniques. However, we focus on teaching each other new spells and trying them out in duels or target practise." He smiled pleasantly at them. "Are you interested?"

Terry stared at him with wide eyes, and made to answer, before Michael interrupted.

"Can't we have a bit of time to think it over?"

Terry nodded.

Harry shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Security is very important to us, you see. The note you signed was actually an oath – it prevents you from returning to this location or speaking of the contents of this meeting. The oath will only be rescinded once you sign another piece of paper which I have here." He patted the pocket of his robes.

Meanwhile, Terry and Michael looked outraged. Well, as outraged as Ravenclaws can be when they're presented with something new and intellectually interesting.

"So unless we join this club of yours, we'll be under this oath for the rest of our lives." Michael said angrily.

"Essentially. Though, you have nothing to worry about if you keep quiet. It won't affect you in any other way."

" _Other_ way?" Michael asked incredulously. "You haven't told us how it _will_ affect us!"

"Well you see -"

"Um...we don't uh, die if we break the oath, do we?" Terry stuttered.

Harry laughed. "Of course not! I don't kill my friends."

Both Terry and Michael looked unnerved at the comment, and Harry had to refrain from visibly deflating at that, because he had meant to be reassuring.

Although, he supposed he just did imply that he had no qualms about killing other people. Oops.

"In all seriousness, though," he said, "In answer to Michael's question, if you choose not to join, nothing will happen. You'll just find yourselves unable to talk or write about the note I sent or this conversation with other people around. You have nothing to worry about."

Terry and Michael glanced at each other.

"So...tell us, what are the benefits of joining?" Michael demanded.

Harry frowned. "Besides learning how to protect yourself and all sorts of spells you'll never learn in school?"

"He's got a point," Terry put in.

Michael rolled his eyes. "Yeah, besides that."

"Well...I can teach you how to craft your own spells...and write your own magical oaths, Draco can help you with experimental potions, Hermione can research just about anything with you, and Theo can...well, you can make a lot of money betting against him when we duel."

Michael raised an eyebrow, and Terry looked bewildered.

"It's a joke," Harry explained.

Evidently, it wasn't a very funny joke, because no one laughed.

Harry sighed. "What I mean to say is...Theo's a very talented duellist. He rarely loses unless he's duelling me, and he'd be happy to teach you. He's really fast and agile and he can really help you with your aim."

He got no response.

"Look, I honestly can't think of any reason why you'd say no," Harry admitted. "You're Ravenclaws. Learning is what you _do_. Why would you pass up an opportunity like this?" He hesitated. "But I do understand if you feel it's not worth the risk. Extensive knowledge and skill in subjects like magical defence and offence only have so much value for the average witch or wizard."

Terry opened his mouth to say something, but closed it a moment later, and his eyes drifted over to Michael, who was already staring back at him.

"Anyhow, like you, I have a potions essay to work on, so -"

"I'm in," Terry and Michael said simultaneously.

Harry beamed at them. "Excellent! You won't regret it, I promise!"

Michael rolled his eyes. "Fine, now where's that thing we need to sign?"

Harry fished a piece of parchment out of his pocket and laid it on the table with his blood quill, pointing at the space below the names, _Theodore Nott, Hermione Granger,_ and _Draco Malfoy._

"There's no ink."

Harry nodded slowly. "Yes, you see...this is a very special quill. It doesn't need ink. It will hurt your hand a bit to use it, but it's the best way to nullify the oath. Trust me – I've done tons of research on this."

Both Terry and Michael were staring at him critically.

"I'll give you my sources another time."

Looking a bit uneasy, both Terry and Michael signed the page – wincing as they did – and when they were done, Michael clarified, "The oath is null, now, right?"

Harry nodded. "Yes...but I'll still know if you tell anyone."

Michael nodded. "Fair enough. When do we meet?"

Harry handed them each a piece of parchment. "A date and a time will appear on each piece of parchment. Only you will be able to see it. When the time comes, come back to this corridor, and pace in front of the wall we came through three times, thinking, _I want the room that Harry Potter is using_. A door will appear."

"Right then. Come on, Terry."

Michael stood up to leave, still looking a bit stiff and nervous, and Terry followed.

"Thanks for the invitation, Harry," Terry said with a smile.

Harry smiled back. "Of course."

Just as Michael slipped through the door behind Terry, he poked his head back inside.

"By the way, you're a manipulative bastard."

Harry froze.

And then the door snapped shut. He took a deep breath and looked down at his watch - five minutes until Tracey and Daphne were supposed to meet him.

He sighed, picking up the piece of paper where five of his friends had signed their names, feeling a pang of guilt as he stared at the red letters.

He'd done it on a whim - he didn't know if that made it worse or better.

He had cursed this particular piece of parchment – a page out of his diary – carefully using a carefully tweaked – under Tom's guidance – ritual he read in a book he picked up in the Black library on effigies and human sacrifice. He'd told Theo, Hermione, and Draco it was for study purposes, and that there was no oath actually attached to the signatures. It was true – but what he had actually done was much, much worse.

Each signature was essentially a magical effigy, and was linked to each of his friends. There was no oath attached to them now, but when he finally finished his project...well, now he could hold them to anything he wanted. He didn't think it had hit him, yet, just how much power he now had over his friends. It was frightening, it was cruel, and it was an enormous breech of trust – they could never, ever learn the truth – but if he was going to rely on them at all in the future, he needed a guarantee. Tom wouldn't accept anything less, and he had no intention of branding his friends like cattle.

The project would take a while, though. Crafting an oath pervasive enough to ensure the security of the Order of the Midnight Sun and their shared secrets without making it too restrictive and disrespectful to his friends' autonomy was like a balancing act, and it would likely take him months, if not years to write – it was hard to determine a timeline now, because he still had no idea how he was going to do it.

He glanced at his watch again. Time to meet Daphne and Tracey.

Slipping under his invisibility cloak, he stepped out into the corridor, and sure enough, he soon saw them wandering over to where he stood. It was then that he shed his cloak.

Tracey looked immensely startled for a moment, but Daphne's face lit up as soon as she saw him.

"Harry! You're the one who sent us the notes!?" She gasped, and her cheeks turned pink. "You sent me a secret note..."

"He sent both of us a secret note," Tracey put in sourly.

"Shut up, Tracey, don't steal this moment from me."

Harry laughed awkwardly. "Yes, I was the one who sent you the notes."

Tracey stared at him suspiciously. "How did you get into our dorm room?"

"Oh, that wasn't me – I enlisted the help of one of the Hogwarts elves, you see."

Tracey nodded, seeming to accept his answer with relief. Daphne, on the other hand, seemed to be disappointed that he hadn't placed the note on her pillow himself.

"Now...if you lovely ladies would follow me."

Tracey rolled her eyes, and Daphne's cheeks went from pink to red.

He walked up to the wall and began pacing, asking for the room of Hot Chocolate.

"Harry, what are you -" Tracey stopped short when she saw the door forming on the wall. "What the -?"

Harry pushed the door open. "Ladies first."

Both girls were staring at the room with wide eyes, as they entered.

"Harry, what is this place?" Tracey said, bewildered.

Harry smiled welcomingly. " _This_ is the Room of Hot Chocolate."

"The _what_?"

"I'll explain later. Please, take a seat."

Both girls sat down on the plush, red velvet couches. "Now what's this about?" Tracey asked.

"Don't be _rude_ ," Daphne snapped.

Tracey rolled her eyes.

"Not to worry, Daphne. In fact, I'm so glad you asked," Harry said, still smiling. "Like I mentioned in my note, I'm inviting you two to join a group I have formed with some of my friends -"

"Theo, Draco, and Granger?"

Harry nodded. "And, more recently, Terry and Michael. Anyway, it's a sort of study group. We meet once a week, in secret. Typically, each meeting consists of learning new spells and practising the ones we already know in the context of a duel."

Daphne's eyes were wide and she looked thrilled, but Tracey was looking at him suspiciously.

"If that's all you do, why do you meet in secret?"

"Ah, well, for one thing, we would never be allowed to practise duelling without the supervision of a professor." He didn't know why he hadn't come up with that excuse earlier.

"And what about the other thing? And why can't you just request the supervision of a teacher?"

"Ah, yes, well, we learn a wide variety of spells, some of which are not a part our Hogwarts curriculum."

"...and?"

"And a few of them might be...less than...legal."

Tracey blinked, and Daphne squealed.

"Oh, Harry! You're going to teach me the _dark arts_?"

Harry resisted grimacing at the fact that Daphne had already 'let the cat out of the bag', so to speak, Tracey winced at the high tone of her voice, before turning to Harry with an accusing light in her eye. "Is that true? Is that what this is about?" she asked lowly.

"It's about more than that -" Harry began.

But Tracey wasn't having that at all. "I'm not like Theo and Draco, Harry, my parents aren't – they aren't – and what the bloody hell is Granger doing in this group of yours? She's a _Gryffindor_ and a mu-"

"She's brave," Harry interrupted firmly, trying but failing to keep the harshness out of his voice, "And smart. And she understands that dangerous knowledge can sometimes protect us from something even more dangerous."

They both fell silent, and Daphne was once again staring at Harry with a blush on her cheeks.

"I wasn't going to say it, you know," Tracey said, quietly. "I wouldn't say a word like that."

Harry nodded slowly. It was true, he'd never heard Tracey say the word _mudblood._ "Good."

Tracey cleared her throat. "Anyway, what I was getting at was...I'm not one of those Slytherins that glorify the dark arts. My parents taught me better than that."

"I'm not asking you to glorify anything," Harry said evenly, "The dark arts are a tool, which can be used for good or evil. The fact of the matter is that the magic we learn at Hogwarts doesn't prepare us for the scenario where we find ourselves up against a dark witch or wizard of considerable skill. It's possible to defend yourself without the use of the dark arts, of course, but to do so effectively is beyond the skill of most of us."

Tracey was staring at the fire with a thoughtful look on her face.

"People don't like to say it up front, but even Hogwarts curriculum contains dark spells. Jinxes, hexes, and curses – they're all dark. And when DMLE agents and aurors go through their training, they learn to cast even more dark magic; in fact, aurors were casting unforgivables, during the last war. It's not the spells we use or how we classify them that determines the value of our actions – it's the actions themselves, our motivations, and the consequences of them."

Tracey nodded. "Yeah, you're right, of course...they're just words. All of it. It's just words."

Harry smiled softly. "Exactly. So what do you say?"

Tracey glanced at Daphne, who nodded rapidly, a slightly manic grin on her face.

Tracey nodded slowly. "Ok...alright. I'm in."

"Excellent!" He drew the parchment and his 'special' quill out of his pocket. "Then I need just one thing from you – to sign this piece of parchment with this quill."

Tracey raised an eyebrow. "A sign in sheet?"

Meanwhile, Daphne had already picked up the quill, and was now staring down at the page bemusedly.

"Everyone signs this one once they join," Harry explained, pointing down at the signatures already on the page.

"Harry," Daphne said, "Where's the ink?"

"Ah, well, you won't be needing any. It's a very special quill, you see; it...uses blood instead of ink."

Tracey, and even Daphne, looked a little squeamish at that.

A moment later, though, Daphne sniffed and said, "Well, I'm not afraid of a little pain," and then proceeded to sign her name, not even wincing as she did – in fact, she giggled a bit.

Tracey, who was looking oddly at Daphne, took the quill after that and signed her name, though she did wince slightly as she wrote her name down.

Once she had finished, Harry pocketed the parchment and quill, and handed them each a piece of parchment. "A date and a time will appear on each piece of parchment. Only you will be able to see it. When the time comes, come back to this corridor, and pace in front of the wall we came through three times, thinking, _I want the room that Harry Potter is using_. A door will appear." He paused. "You'll likely be contacted within a few days regarding times."

"Oh, I can't _wait_ , Harry," Daphne purred.

And with the look on her face, he certainly believed her.

* * *

"It's almost like he _wants_ us to learn the unforgivables," Harry mused quietly as he and Hermione walked side by side up to their Defence against the Dark Arts classroom.

For the last few weeks Professor Moody had been going over the unforgivable curses in painstaking detail, leaving Harry both pleased and concerned. Pleased because their lessons were exceptionally fascinating, and he was learning about three very important and (despite the fact that they were unforgivable) commonly used (well, perhaps only by Tom and his followers, actually) curses without having to spend his own time doing so; in fact, he was basically being taught how to cast the curses. But that's what also concerned him. Most of his classmates weren't clever and experienced enough to figure it out, but he wasn't sure that it was...prudent...to give a bunch of fourteen year olds the tools they needed to figure out how to cast some of the most dangerous curses around. He was all for giving students a healthy dose of the dark arts, but teaching hormonal teenagers how to cast the _cruciatus_ curse was another thing entirely.

"I honestly can't believe that man," Hermione said darkly, "And I can't believe Professor Dumbledore would hire someone like that. I thought he was supposed to be against using the dark arts!"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe that's why. I'm fairly certain Professor Moody's doing a decent job of scaring most Hogwarts students away from ever touching dark magic."

"But they shouldn't be afraid!" Hermione exclaimed quietly, looking frustrated, "You can't defend against something you're terrified of! Dangerous things should be respected, not feared!"

Harry looked over at Hermione with a raised eyebrow. Hermione had changed, since he'd first met her...drastically. He didn't think she would ever gleefully go on about how awesome it was that she cause massive amounts of chaos and destruction with a few words and the flick of her wand (unlike some other members of the Order), but she had come to appreciate the dark arts as a legitimate field of study, and she took what he taught her very seriously. He didn't know if she would ever be a dark witch, or if she'd ever be able to cast the _cruciatus_ curse or _avada kedavra_ , but her skill was undeniable, and he continued to be impressed by her ability to master dark magic without becoming too caught up in it, all the while respecting it with considerable maturity.

"What?"

Harry blinked, and realized he had been staring. "Just – nothing. I was just thinking about how right you are."

Hermione rolled her eyes and sat down at her desk.

Moments later, Professor Moody hobbled into the room, and a hush fell over the class.

"I've got a surprise for you all to day," he announced without prelude, and almost mischievous smile twisting his lips.

Harry saw some people shift uncomfortably. He refrained from doing the same.

"Today, you'll all feel what it's like to be under the influence of the _imperius_ curse."

He heard some faint gasps, and looked around the room to see that many of his classmates had gone white in the face.

"Come on, up! Stand up!" Professor Moody barked.

Everyone scattered out of their seats, watching with trepidation as the professor cleared away the desks with a wave of his wand.

"There, now line up, all of you."

Everyone did as they were told...except Hermione, who stood back.

"Professor," she said evenly, "I thought the use of these curses on another human being was essentially a one-way ticket to Azkaban."

"Special Ministry approval," the grizzled man grunted.

Hermione seemed to be a little thrown by the answer. "And they don't think it's, I don't know, ethically questionable to cast an unforgivable curse on children?"

Professor Moody's magical eye swivelled over to fix her with his eerie stare, and she withered a little at the attention. "If you'd rather learn the hard way - when someone's putting it on you so they can control you completely - fine by me. You're excused. Off you go." He pointed one gnarled finger toward the door.

Hermione suddenly straightened her back and looked very offended. "I never said I didn't want to participate."

Professor Moody grinned at her. "Front of the line, then, Granger."

Hermione strode to the front of the line with a dignified gait.

Harry stared on with narrowed eyes, ruminating in vague feelings of unease and anger. He would have liked to be the one to teach his friends this curse. He _should_ have been the one to teach his friends this curse.

He vaguely observed as Hermione flapped her arms like a bird, albeit somewhat stiffly.

He grit his teeth. The idea of someone else casting the _imperius_ on his friends left him with the beginnings of a cold fury coiling in his chest – the idea of Moody controlling them completely made him want to curse the man with something nasty. They shouldn't learn this from a stranger – they shouldn't have their wills violated by someone who didn't care about them. They couldn't trust Moody – but they could trust him. It should have been him. He should have done this sooner...it was a valuable skill – how could he have not thought it was something the Order needed to learn?

"Potter!" Moody barked.

Harry started, realizing that he was at the front of the line.

He stepped forward slowly, fixing the professor with a blank stare, which was returned unflinchingly.

"Ready, Potter?"

Harry nodded curtly.

" _Imperio!"_

Harry had never felt the effects of the curse before, but he liked to think he could withstand them. He was a fairly skilled occlumens, and Tom told him it was easier to beat it once you felt what it was like to cast it, and Harry had felt this many times; not to mention, he was used to having voices in his head. So what he anticipated was a pleasant oblivion and an insistent voice, which he could hopefully promptly ignore, and that would be the end of it. But that's not quite what happened.

At once he was consumed by a floating sensation, and every concern and insecurity was wiped gently away, leaving a quiet pleasantness behind.

But then he heard the voice, a foreign one.

 _Jump onto the desk._

He suddenly felt very, very cold.

 _Who are you, what are you doing in my head?_

 _Jump onto the desk._

Confusion seized him. Where was he? What was going on? And who the fuck was in his head? _Get out. Get out now._

He'd felt this before, this insubstantial confidence, this absence of care or consequence – this thing inside him urging him on against his will. He vaguely recalled a soft, velvety voice, and a blonde man held at wandpoint.

" _I'm collecting."_

" _Obliviate."_

 _Jump onto the desk._

No. Never again. Never again. He would never, _ever,_ feel that weak, pathetic, powerless, powerful, wonderful -

 _JUMP ONTO THE DESK._

 _GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!_

He heard a loud crash, and suddenly he was standing in his Defence against the Dark Arts classroom, one hand in his hair, fingers painfully digging into his skull, and the other pointed blindly in front of him, gripping his wand. He slowly looked up, to find Professor Moody getting up off the floor in front of him, his own wand drawn. It was then when he noticed the ceiling above them, badly charred, smoking faintly.

"That's a difficult curse you cast," Moody said quietly.

It was? He didn't even know what he cast. He didn't even know he _had_ cast something.

"Wordless too. We'll make an auror out of you yet, Potter." He cast his eyes around the room. "Did you lot see that?" he growled, "Potter fought! And not only did he fight, he recognized a hostile presence, and reacted accordingly! He fought off the curse and beat me in what could have been a future attack. CONSTANT VIGILANCE! That's the key."

Harry took a shaky breath, feeling his chest constricted and tight, his hands clammy and jittery. It's just school, he reminded himself. You're not in danger. You have nothing to be afraid of. Because he was afraid. He wasn't quite sure why, but he _was_ afraid.

Slowly, he turned his head, to find all his classmates staring at him in awe. Theo was grinning uneasily, barely disguising his concern as he gave him a thumbs-up, and Hermione looked quite worried. As he walked over to her he vaguely heard Professor Moody call out, "Bulstrode! You're up!"

"I knew this was a bad idea," Hermione murmured to him, "Education is no excuse to strip people of their rights and violate them."

"I'm fine, Hermione...and no one else seems too shaken up about it," he added, feeling disgust at himself for losing control like that.

"That still doesn't make it right," she retorted.

Harry sighed. He disagreed, but he was in no mood to argue.

He settled on saying, "People justify sacrificing human rights for security all the time. You know that. It's not as simple as right or wrong."

She pursed her lips, but didn't reply, and they both went back to observing their classmates as they jumped and danced and sang, feeling no amusement at the blatant spectacle.

* * *

 _:I'm sorry,:_ Harry immediately hissed at Tom – who had been conspicuously silent all day – once his privacy charms were in place. _:Moody -:_

 _Is proving to be a more serious threat than I initially believed._

Harry blinked, shocked that Tom wasn't furious with him. "You're not...mad at me?"

 _Your first reaction to being placed under the imperius curse_ should _be to attack the caster. You should show no mercy to those who attempt to control you._

"Are you praising me?" Harry asked incredulously.

 _Hardly. I am merely explaining why I do not consider this a misstep on your part. Moody backed you into a corner, and you reacted accordingly – I did not expect that you would be placed in such a precarious situation within Hogwarts, in the presence of one of your teachers. We will have to be much more careful, from now on. Moody is unpredictable, and we clearly cannot assume that his actions will align with what we expect from our other enemies._

Harry nodded slowly. "I understand."

 _However, there is something we must address about your reaction to the imperius curse today._

Harry went a little stiff.

 _I felt your fear._

Harry froze, then, his stomach squirming with disgust and shame.

 _What were you afraid of? The imperius curse by design prevents the victim from feeling fear – your response was highly irregular._ Tom sounded curious rather than disappointed or angry, and Harry relaxed a little.

"It felt good. Too good," Harry said quietly, "It was a kind of happiness, but it wasn't mine. It didn't belong to me. And I'd prefer to feel pain and fear for the rest of my life, as long as it's mine. I'll take the bad over the good any day, as long as I can own it."

Tom was silent for a moment.

 _As would I._

* * *

"Now, I realize that you all came here expecting to learn some curses and duel, and we _will_ get to that, but in light of yesterday's Defence Against the Dark Arts class, I thought we ought to focus on something a little more...relevant, momentarily. The _imperius_ curse."

Theo, Hermione, Draco, Michael, Terry, Tracey, and Daphne were all gathered in front of him, in the Room of Requirement. It was Thursday evening, and everyone had shown up on time, all of them looking either nervous or eager – he couldn't really tell the difference. But now that he mentioned the unforgivable, they all looked decidedly nervous.

So he tried to assuage their fears, a little. "I'll be casting the curse on each of you until you can resist it. Don't worry – I won't have you do anything embarrassing or painful, and I don't expect any of you to cast it. I understand that you might be uncomfortable committing a crime worthy of a lifetime in Azkaban – that's completely reasonable."

Everyone looked quite relieved at that – except Hermione.

"But Harry – if someone finds out you cast it -"

"They won't. I know none of you will say anything, and right after we work on this, we'll work in pairs to help our new members get a quick start on occlumency."

"But are you sure you want to -"

Harry smiled softly. "It's alright, Hermione. I've been meaning to practice this for a while now."

Hermione still looked concerned, but didn't say anything further.

"Now, who wants to go first?"

Immediately, Daphne's hand flew into the air.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Alright, Daphne, step right up."

Grinning, Daphne strode forward.

This was it. His first Unforgivable curse. Would he be able to cast it now, without any practice? It wasn't the most difficult curse, but it wasn't exactly easy...

Harry took a deep breath, and pointed his wand straight at her. _"Imperio."_

He got it on the first try.

* * *

Anyway, let me know what you think :)


	9. The Binding Magical Contract

**Disclaimer:** The usual.

 **AN:** So, you know how I said I was going to do some editing of Harry Potter and the Accidental Horcrux and never really did? Yeah, well, I've been working on that a bit, and there were a couple of notable changes that I thought I'd bring up (not really _crucial_ or anything, but important to me):

1\. Chapter 30. A significant pain point which I've taken my time in band-aide-ing. Namely, a place where I wanted to stick with canon because I wanted Dumbledore to find out Harry was an occlumens and Draco to figure out that Harry is a parselmouth, and did so quite carelessly. For those of you who don't remember, Harry basically says to Draco, "Hey, didn't you hear that mysterious voice in the walls? [Even though I know all about the Chamber of Secrets, I have _no_ idea what it is.] Let's follow it!" And that makes literally no sense. Like none. I could make excuses about how I was rushed and stressed and whatever, but I won't and just say that I messed up and have gone and corrected it. I don't know if it technically counts as retconning, because nothing outside of that small scene actually changes...but anyway, now Harry basically says to Draco, "Hey, did you - [Oh, wait, I know what's going on here...shit.] Ok, get lost, I have important things to take care of," but Draco follows him anyway, which I think is way more realistic.

2\. Chapter 41. A subtler pain point. I made some small changes – just a few phrases here and there, to emphasize some things that I think got lost in that long chapter. I sometimes say things very briefly and vaguely that I feel are important and stand out as significant, but then I write so much about other things that they kind of fall into the background. I'm working on that...don't know if it's getting any better though. Anyway, a significant _portion_ of chapter 41 is spent on describing Harry's debilitating depressive episode, when really, the significant _point_ in the chapter is the point in which he finds himself no longer depressed. Which I initially granted like, one or two sentences.

Now, I think that a lot of people (understandably) got the impression that Harry was depressed because he was guilty about what happened with Lockhart, and that's certainly part of it (because depression tends to latch on to any source of guilt it can find, and that's the part Harry would be most consciously aware of), but what _instigated_ it was feeling like he lost control. Over and over again Harry loses control, and then feels completely torn up about it; he _needs_ to feel responsibility for his actions - it's part of his twisted guilty antihero complex. But his mind wasn't quite able to accept what he did to Lockhart, because it wasn't really _him_. Voldemort (the new and improved (?) version) was messing with him (the details of this will be revealed at a later date) on a level Harry isn't really willing to comprehend.

Anyway, I think the key thing I failed to communicate was simply the question of, "If Harry was actually depressed because of what he did to Lockhart, why did the depression evaporate when he basically murdered Robert in cold blood?" The answer was kind of touched on last chapter, more explicitly than it has been in the past. It was because he owned the action. He was doing what Tom told him to do, and he felt like he had to do it, but it was deliberate, conscious, and autonomous. Most significantly, there was a _continuity_ \- it fit in his 'narrative' of his identity. With Lockhart, it didn't - it was out of the blue, confusing, foreign, and a disruption to his thought process and the story he had chosen to tell himself about...well, himself. But now he can acknowledge his capacity to do very bad things, and use that fact to retroactively explain Lockhart.

Anyway, yeah, I did a really shitty job of communicating that. As per usual I wrote the scene when I was struggling with the whole loss of identity/recovered memories drama, and executed it poorly (joys of writing as therapy, alas, you are my innocent victims, along with my ego).

Anyway...let's just...not call it retconning, K? Yeah? Correction and clarification, that's cool right?

* * *

 **Chapter 9: The Binding Magical Contract**

Harry glared at the sign hanging in the entrance hall.

 _TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT_

 _The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at 6 o'clock on Friday the 30th of October. Lessons will end half an hour early. Students will return their bags and books to their dormitories and assemble in front of the castle to greet our guests before the Welcoming Feast._

He wasn't quite sure when his feelings about the Triwizard Tournament evolved into something so negative – he supposed it was a gradual thing. He'd originally felt some measure of disdain about the whole thing, and that definitely turned into full-on resentment when he heard quidditch was cancelled because of the stupid tournament.

They _cancelled_ quidditch. Who does that?

Eventually it occurred to him that Hogwarts was going to be flooded with a bunch of foreign students: a whole group of unknown variables that were going to disrupt their lives and make the castle even more crowded than it already was. Now, one could argue that Hogwarts was actually, given its size, quite sparsely populated, and that some extra bodies would hardly be an inconvenience. One could also argue that the opportunity to learn from foreign students and build relationships in the international community was a very positive thing. But Harry didn't want to think about that. It was his prerogative to focus on the negatives for once; he spent far too much time being optimistic, and frankly, it was exhausting. This whole thing was going to end in disaster. He could just feel it.

And if all that wasn't enough to put him off of the whole thing, the fact that everyone kept talking about it was. Really? Did they not have better things to talk about? Like homework. Or quidditch - oh, wait, there wasn't any. And it would be like this all year – people would get all excited and simultaneously ascend to even more profound levels of irritating.

"If you keep glaring like that it'll catch on fire," Theo said humorously, before looking at Harry sternly, "It will though, literally. This is you we're talking about."

Harry sighed, turning away from the sign and beginning to wade through the sea of students.

"Words cannot express just how unhappy this tournament makes me." A sizable exaggeration, but who cares? "No quidditch -"

 _Isn't it glorious?_

"- and we all have to bear witness to this ostentatious expression of human vanity all year long. A morbid spectacle is invading our place of learning, and instead of teaching us to work hard and accomplish things on our own merit, our elders are demonstrating that success can be won by feats of daring and stupidity. It's not a healthy environment to learn in and I hardly think that - "

Suddenly, he felt two hands gripping his shoulders.

"Come now, Harry -"

"- if we didn't know better -"

"- we'd think you were a wet blanket -"

"- or an old granny -"

"- or a misanthropic goose -"

"- a goose named Lucy, that is -"

"- or a block of mouldy cheese -"

"- Swiss cheese, that is -"

"- or a -"

"I get it, I get it, you're unimpressed," Harry groused.

"Very unimpressed," the Weasley twins said together.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And what's it to you?"

"Why, Harry -"

"- we'll both be entering -"

"- and we'd very much appreciate it -"

"- if you cheered us on."

Draco looked at the two Weasley twins in disgust, and they stared back with immense dislike.

"Harry would _never_ cheer for a Gryffindor," Draco said snobbily.

"I wouldn't cheer for _anyone_ ," Harry interjected before the twins could retort, "Because I _won't_ be attending the tasks, nor will I be paying them any mind."

Fred or George – he didn't know which one – raised an eyebrow. "You really are put off by this whole thing, aren't you?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's nothing but vanity. An archaic tradition that encourages laziness and -"

"Merlin, you sound like Hermione," Theo said. "But even she's on board - something about international cooperation or something."

"Which is a valid point, but -"

"You know what we think -"

"Harry dear?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

"We think -"

"- you're just sour -"

"- over the fact that -"

"- you won't get to play quidditch -"

"- all year long -"

"- and really -"

"There's nothing more to it," they finished together.

Harry opened his mouth to defend himself, but stopped, and sighed in defeat. "That might be part of it."

Fred and George smirked at him, and he just walked away.

* * *

Harry shivered as he trudged up the stone steps to the owlery; he was only wearing his jumper, and November was fast approaching, along with predictably biting Scottish winds and rainy days. He was on his way to send a letter to Sirius. It wasn't a particularly important letter; he was just informing him that he was getting close to achieving his first transformation – he'd managed to grow some feathers the other day – and that Draco would be finished brewing the potion in less than two weeks...but he knew Sirius liked regular updates, because he didn't really have a life of his own.

No, that was cruel. Sirius had a job, and he had Remus and that other man he met in Azkaban, and there were likely others from work, but...he got the feeling that the man felt awkward befriending people his own age. He supposed it made sense – Sirius was barely more than a teenager when they locked him up in Azkaban, and he never got to grow into an adult with his friends by his side. He was familiar with this hardship – it had been difficult, arriving at Hogwarts and having no idea how to make friends his own age. How to make friends at all, really. His first three friendships originated from sharing a body, blackmail, and the murder of a troll, which he'd come to realize was highly irregular. Hopefully Sirius wouldn't have to resort to such things.

An unpleasant smell flooded his senses as he stepped into the owlery, which he promptly ignored, albeit with difficulty; the things he put up with for his friends.

Harry looked over at the Barn owl he usually asked to deliver his messages to Sirius.

The owl hooted curiously.

Harry smiled. "Nice to see you too, Clarence." He honestly wasn't sure what the owl's name was, but he rather thought it looked like a Clarence. "Yes, I've got another letter for you to deliver."

He heard an indignant squawking sound, and turned around to see a chubby tawny owl staring at him intently.

"Oh, hello, Jerry. I didn't mean to ignore you."

He heard another urgent hoot and saw a screech owl jumping onto the perch in front of him.

"Cranberry! You're here too! Excellent, all my favourite people are here."

He heard a few indignant hoots scattered across the owlery. In the meantime, Cranberry looked immensely pleased and hopped onto Harry's shoulder.

"Ok, ok, I'm sorry. I love you all. I really do."

A few satisfied hoots followed his declaration.

"How are you all doing? It's been a while since I've seen you all." He hadn't exactly been diligent in replying to Sirius's letters, which he was sure to hear about, and ever since he started to make definitive progress on his transformations, his visits in the owlery had grown more sparse.

Some happy hoots followed his question.

"Oh, better than me then. I'm rather annoyed right now, you see. There's this stupid tournament that Hogwarts is going to host – I told you about it, didn't I? - and it'll be starting soon. I -"

He was interrupted by a hoot behind him.

He turned around to see Clarence staring at him reproachfully.

"Oh, right! I have a letter for you."

He fished it out of his bag and held it up, and Clarence hooted happily and plucked the letter out of his hand.

"As always, your eagerness is appreciated, Clarence. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I'd very much like it if you could deliver this to Sirius Black."

Clarence made a pleased sound and took off.

"Now, as I was saying, about this stupid tournament -"

He was interrupted again, this time by trudging footsteps emanating from the staircase. A moment later, Jordan Avery emerged from the doorway, stopping short when he saw Harry standing there.

"Potter," he said slowly, his voice as bland as ever, "Why is my owl on your shoulder?"

Harry blinked, and then glanced up at Cranberry, who was staring blankly down at him. "Cranberry belongs to you?"

"Who's Cranberry?" Avery looked considerably bewildered.

Harry pointed up at Cranberry, who hooted happily.

"His name's Aldred," Avery said.

Harry pursed his lips. "Are you sure? He rather likes the name Cranberry. We tried about twenty different ones, but Cranberry's the one that really resonated with him."

"I'm sure," Avery confirmed.

"Ah."

They stared at each other for about three seconds.

"Who were you talking to?" Avery suddenly asked.

"Cranberry and his friends," Harry said in a tone that indicated that it was obvious. There was no one else around.

"Aldred."

"Right. Aldred."

"Do you usually talk to owls?"

"Well, I'm usually not up here. But when I am I talk to them."

Avery looked slightly unnerved. "Why?"

"They understand us, you know. It would be rude not to ask them how their day went, or at least say hi."

"But they can't respond."

"Yes they can. Right, Cranberry?"

Cranberry hooted in confirmation.

"Aldred."

"Right. Aldred."

"So what do you talk to my owl about, Potter?"

"We were talking about the Triwizard Tournament."

Avery grimaced. "Oh, that. Eagerly awaiting it?"

"More like resentfully."

Avery's eyebrows rose. "You too, then?"

"There's no quidditch, and it all seems very stupid to me."

Avery just nodded.

"Why are you upset about it?" Harry inquired curiously.

Avery scowled. "Everyone is so damn happy about it. It's annoying."

Harry blinked. "You're upset because...people are happy?"

"Yes."

Harry thought about this for a moment. "Huh. I suppose that could make sense. Are you generally averse to positive emotions or does the fact that others are so averse to negative emotions bother you?"

Avery looked very surprised by the question. "Both, I suppose. It just rubs me the wrong way."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Are you a sadist?" he asked, suddenly very curious, "You said you don't like it when people are happy, but do you like it when they suffer?"

Avery seemed reluctant to answer. "...sometimes," he said slowly.

"I see, and do you feel misanthropic consistently or are these objections to human behaviour more superficial? Not that I'm implying that sadism requires misanthropy, I'm sure you're far more complicated than that."

Avery looked genuinely unnerved now. "Why are you asking me all these questions?"

Harry shrugged. "Because I'm curious."

That didn't seem to reassure Avery at all. "About me?"

"Sure. You never talk, but clearly you have things to say, so I'm curious as to what they are."

"No one wants to hear what I have to say," Avery said darkly.

Harry paused. "I do."

"Why? I'm not a good person."

Harry shrugged. "Interesting people often aren't. And I'm not a good person either," he said honestly. "You know that. I have a reputation."

Avery couldn't help but chuckle at that. "That you do."

Harry grinned at his success at comforting the other boy, who was clearly very lonely. "You know, I think we might actually have a lot in common, Avery."

Avery's lips twitched upward into a smile. "I suppose I'll take your word for it, Potter."

* * *

Harry cast his eyes around the Great Hall, blinking lazily.

"Even you've got to admit, it looks pretty great – the school pride is practically palpable!"

Theo was, of course, referring to the Great Hall's new decorations. Enormous silk banners hung from the walls, each of them representing a Hogwarts House: red with a gold lion for Gryffindor, blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff, and green with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind the teachers' table, the largest banner of all bore the Hogwarts coat of arms: lion, eagle, badger, and snake united around a large letter H.

Harry looked at Theo blankly. "Palpable?"

"Er, yes? Like...taste the excitement in the air?"

Harry ignored him, and focused on meticulously slicing his toast into completely uniform pieces. He didn't have obsessive compulsive disorder or anything, but Tom probably did, and he would sometimes find himself copying some of the habits the Dark Lord succumbed to in his youth, when he was particularly exhausted or strained. Painstakingly carving and organizing his food was one of these habits, which always won him concerned looks from his housemates. That was usually enough to snap him out of whatever mental feedback loop he'd fallen into, but it wasn't quite enough this morning.

His occlumency shields had been savagely attacked last night once again by the unwitting master soul, and as much as he enjoyed watching Voldemort cast the _cruciatus_ curse on Peter Pettigrew on an intellectual level, the massive amounts of pain that accompanied the entertainment was by no means worth it. He still had a headache.

And the headache didn't improve much, as the day wore on. It seemed that every time a teacher wasn't droning on, his classmates were chattering and going on and on again about the bloody tournament; the very air was buzzing with excitement. Palpable was one way to put it.

Unfortunately, it also _palpably_ hurt his head.

The day came to a close with a Potions lesson which was woefully cut short (but perhaps that was a good thing, because Neville never got the chance to blow up his...concoction), following which they deposited their books in their respective dorm rooms and made their way to the front of the castle.

Once they arrived, their Heads of House briskly ordered them into lines; Professor McGonagall was snapping irritably at her Gryffindors, while Professor Flitwick was, well, flitting around and Professor Sprout was fussing at her Hufflepuffs. Professor Snape merely glared at the Slytherins, and they did as they were told, well-adjusted to the fact that trying the Potion Master's patience was simply not done.

Harry shivered slightly, suddenly aware of just how much he wanted to be anywhere but there; why couldn't they wait inside? It was a cold, clear evening: dusk was falling and a pale, transparent-looking moon was already shining over the Forbidden Forest, and the air was brisk and cold; most of the students, despite being wrapped in their cloaks, seemed to share his sentiment.

"How do you think they'll arrive?" Tracey murmured beside him.

Harry shrugged, looking unashamedly bored. Did he have an attitude problem? Maybe. Did he care? Not at the moment, no.

A few moments passed, and the ambient chatter that had been haunting him all day continued, until Professor Dumbledore called out from the back row where he stood with the other teachers, "Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"

"Where?!" several students exclaimed excitedly, all looking in different directions.

"There!" yelled one sixth year Hufflepuff, pointing over the forest.

The shouts continued, and Harry vaguely registered several futile guesses as to what the shape was – a dragon and a flying house were among them – as he peered out into the distance, trying to discern for himself what the flying vehicle was. When he got a good look at it, he was left bewildered.

It was a gigantic, baby-blue horse-drawn carriage, the size of a large house, soaring toward them, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses, each the size of an elephant. The front three rows of students drew backward as the carriage hurtled ever lower, coming in to land at a tremendous speed — then, with an almighty crash that made Neville jump backward onto Bole's foot – the older boy looked ready to hex him for that - the horses' hooves hit the ground. A second later, the carriage landed too, bouncing upon its wide wheels, while the golden horses tossed their enormous heads and blinked their large, fiery red eyes. Harry just had time to see that the door of the carriage bore a coat of arms (two crossed, golden wands, each emitting three stars) before it opened. A boy in pale blue robes hopped down from the carriage, bent forward, fumbled for a moment with something on the carriage floor, and unfolded a set of golden steps. Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage — a shoe the size of a small sled or boat — followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman he had ever seen in his life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately explained. A few people gasped, quite rudely.

Upon her emergence from the carriage, Proffessor Dumbledore started to clap; the students, following his lead, broke into applause too, many of them standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this woman. Her face relaxed into a gracious smile and she walked forward toward the Headmaster, extending a glittering hand, covered in several rings.

The , though tall himself, had barely to bend to kiss it.

"My dear Madame Maxime," he said. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

"Dumbly-dorr," said Madame Maxime in a decidedly rich and deep voice. "I 'ope I find you well?"

"In excellent form, I thank you," Dumbledore replied.

"My pupils," said Madame Maxime, waving one of her enormous hands nonchalantly behind her. Harry, whose attention had been focused completely upon Madame Maxime, now noticed that about a dozen boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their late teens, had emerged from the carriage and were now standing behind Madame Maxime. They were shivering, which was unsurprising, given that their robes seemed to be made of fine silk, and none of them were wearing cloaks. A few had wrapped scarves and shawls around their heads, and they were staring up at Hogwarts with apprehensive looks on their faces.

"'As Karkaroff arrived yet?" Madame Maxime asked.

"He should be here any moment," Professor Dumbledore predicted. "Would you like to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?"

"Warm up, I think," Madame Maxime . "But ze 'orses -"

"Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them," Professor Dumbledore cut in, "The moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation that has arisen with some of his other - er - charges."

Theo snorted quietly and Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Screwts," Theo muttered.

He really needed to get around to meeting these mysterious 'screwts'.

"My steeds require — er — forceful 'andling," Madame Maxime said, looking as though she doubted whether any Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts could be up to the job. "Zey are very strong..."

"I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job," Professor Dumbledore returned graciously.

"Very well," Madame Maxime relented, bowing slightly. "Will you please inform zis 'Agrid zat ze 'orses drink only single-malt whiskey?"

Just like Sirius, apparently.

"It will be attended to." Professor Dumbledore also bowed.

"Come," Madame Maxime said imperiously to her students, and the Hogwarts crowd parted to allow her and her students to pass up the stone steps, before regathering.

They stood, shivering slightly now, waiting for the Durmstrang party to arrive. Most people were gazing hopefully up at the sky. For a few minutes, the silence was broken only by Madame Maxime's huge horses snorting and stamping. But then a loud and oddly eerie noise began drifting toward them from out of the darkness: a muffled rumbling and sucking sound, as though an immense vacuum cleaner were moving along a riverbed.

"The lake!" someone cried out. "Look at the lake!"

Great bubbles were forming on the surface of the Black Lake, and waves were now washing over the muddy banks — and then, out in the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appeared, as if a giant plug had just been pulled out of the lake's floor. What seemed to be a long, black pole began to rise slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool, a moment later revealing rigging along perpendicular black poles. Slowly, a ship rose out of the water, gleaming in the moonlight. It had a strangely skeletal look about it, as though it were a resurrected wreck, and the dim, misty lights shimmering at its portholes looked like ghostly eyes. Finally, with a great sloshing noise, the ship emerged entirely, bobbing on the turbulent water, and began to glide toward the bank.

Harry's jaw nearly dropped. It was a _lake._ How in Merlin's name did they get their ship into the lake, and why on earth was that considered a reasonable form of transit?

Apparently sensing his skepticism, Tom chuckled slightly, but didn't offer up any explanations.

A few moments later, they heard the splash of an anchor being thrown down in the shallows, and the thud of a plank being lowered onto the bank. People were disembarking; they could see their silhouettes passing the lights in the ship's portholes. All of them, Harry noticed, seemed to be built along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle, but then, as they drew nearer, walking up the lawns into the light streaming from the entrance hall, he saw that their bulk was really due to the fact that they were wearing cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur.

"Dumbledore!" a man he immediately identified as Professor Karkaroff called heartily as he walked up the slope. "How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?"

Harry almost gagged, at the change in Karkaroff's demeanour. A sycophant if he ever saw one, clearly.

"Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff," Professor Dumbledore replied.

"Dear old Hogwarts," the other man said, looking up at the castle and smiling; his teeth were rather yellow, and Harry noticed that his smile did not extend to his eyes, which remained cold and shrewd. "How good it is to be here, how good...Viktor, come along, into the warmth...you don't mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold..."

Karkaroff beckoned forward one of his students.

"That's Viktor Krum!" he heard Draco his excitedly, as though that was supposed to reveal anything useful to him.

A murmur of excitement trickled through the crowd of Hogwarts students as Karkaroff and Krum strode past, followed by the other Durmstrang students. The Hogwarts students then followed them in, making their way to their House tables; clearly, the spectacle was over.

For a moment Krum and his fellow Durmstrang students were still gathered around the entrance hall, blocking everyone else's path, apparently unsure about where they should sit. The students from Beauxbatons had chosen seats at the Ravenclaw table, and were looking around the Great Hall with glum expressions on their faces, and a few of them were still clutching scarves and shawls around their heads. Viktor Krum and his fellow Durmstrang students eventually settled themselves at the Slytherin table, making it even more crowded than usual.

He narrowed his eyes unhappily as Draco scooted over, bumping him, while he was trying to make room for the aforementioned Victor Krum.

Once seated, the Durmstrang students began pulling off their heavy furs and looking up at the starry black ceiling with expressions of interest; a couple of them were picking up the golden plates and goblets and examining them, apparently impressed.

Honestly, of all the things to be impressed by...

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and - most particularly - guests," said Dumbledore, beaming around at the foreign students. "I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable."

One of the Beauxbatons girls still clutching a muffler around her head gave what was unmistakably a derisive laugh.

Harry's eyebrows rose. It was common knowledge that Hogwarts was in Scotland. Honestly, what did they expect?

"The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast," said Dumbledore. "I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!" He sat down, and Harry saw Karkaroff lean forward at once and engage him in conversation. The plates in front of them filled with food as usual; however, the elves seemed to have outdone themselves this time - there was a greater variety of dishes in front of them than Harry had ever seen, including several that were definitely foreign.

Almost immediately, ignoring the food, Draco turned to Viktor Krum, smiling pompously.

"Draco Malfoy," he said, holding out his hand.

Krum shook it. "A pleasure, Mr. Malfoy."

"Oh, Draco, please."

Harry shivered at the other boy's tone of voice. Having always been the object of Draco's disdain, then hatred, then fear, and then respectful admiration, he'd never realized just how much of a sycophant his friend could be. Oh well, they could work on that.

He was also interested in conversing with the older boy, who he'd gleaned was a professional quidditch start, about quidditch, but decided to refrain for now – he was probably overwhelmed and didn't need someone else bombarding him with questions – and turned his attention to the food. But just as he was dishing out some mashed potatoes, he heard his name, spoken by a soft, feminine voice, with only a trace of a foreign accent.

"Harry Potter?"

He glanced upward, and his green eyes met an icy blue, set upon a pale face crowned by cropped golden blonde hair.

"Yes?"

The girl seemed pleased that her guess was correct, and smiled slightly, her face contorting into what was probably the most attractive shape he'd ever seen on a human face. "Pardon my boldness – I thought I recognized you from Herr Winter's party. Adina Christiansen," she offered softly. "I would shake your hand, but it's a bit of a reach."

Harry blinked, caught up in listening to what might have been the most pleasant voice he'd ever heard. "We'll just pretend, then," he said in what he hoped was an equally pleasant tone.

To his delight, Adina Christiansen chuckled softly at that, the sound not annoyingly bell-like as it was for most girls; her voice was smooth and mellifluous. "Most gracious of you, Mr. Potter."

"You can call me Harry, if you'd like," he offered.

Her smile grew a bit brighter. "And you may call me Adina."

"A pleasure to meet you, Adina."

"A pleasure to meet you as well, Harry. I must confess, I am something of an admirer of yours."

Harry's eyebrows rose, and he noted that the girl had not bothered to pick up her cutlery. "Oh?"

"I was...deeply moved by the letter you published back in April. You see, we have in common a passion for the welfare of magical children."

Intrigued, Harry set down his own cutlery and stared at her curiously. "Really?"

Adina nodded. "I've spent the last two years building a philanthropic organization, and I am currently gathering funds and support to build the first all-magical orphanage."

Harry's eyes widened, and he felt his heart beat speed up a bit. What incredible luck – a potential ally just happened to be sitting across from him. "That's...extraordinary. How close are you to actually starting the project?"

"I would estimate that we will be able to begin in earnest within a year following my graduation."

"Brilliant! If I may ask, what exactly does your plan entail, besides the building and staffing of the orphanage?"

Adina seemed immensely pleased by the question. "I'm drafting a proposal for a government program that monitors muggle orphanages so that we can care for the magical orphans who are stranded there. I have also spoken with some of the professors at Durmstrang about visiting the homes of students who seem particularly troubled, and reporting mistreatment if necessary. Not to mention lifting that ridiculous ban on muggleborn students."

Harry's eyes were still wide, and he was sure, was looking incredibly eager at this point. "And do you think your proposal will actually go through?"

Adina's lips twitched into a very subtle smirk. "My mother is very...high up in the Danish Ministry of Magic. The proposal will be, at the very least, closely considered."

"That's incredible...and so inspiring. I do hope you won't mind if someone on this side of the channel decides to steal your idea."

Adina's eyes twinkled in a very Dumbledore-like fashion, and he then realized that her pleasant demeanour actually reminded him very much of the Headmaster. "Oh, I am counting on it, Harry. You see, I was hoping that at some point we might discuss your involvement in my organization, if you are amenable."

Harry found himself caught a little off guard by the girl's directness, but appreciated it nonetheless. "I would be more than amenable. I also have a friend who has helped initiate a student welfare program at Hogwarts, and she might be interested in speaking with you as well. At the very least, she'll be interested in hearing about your work."

"Oh, how wonderful!"

They chatted a bit more after that, in between bites, about Adina's project, while, Harry noted, Theo listened on with an unreadable - and if he didn't know better, conflicted - look on his face.

All too soon, however, the feast ended and Professor Dumbledore took the podium once more.

"The moment has come," Professor Dumbledore announced, smiling around at the sea of upturned faces. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket, just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation -" there was a smattering of polite applause "- and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

There was a much louder round of applause for Mr. Bagman than for Mr. Crouch, possibly because he looked like a person; you know, an actual person with thoughts and feelings and the capacity for human connection (Mr. Crouch did not). Mr. Bagman acknowledged the applause with a jovial wave of his hand, while Bartemius Crouch did not smile or wave when his name was announced.

"Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament," Professor Dumbledore continued, "And they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions' efforts."

At the mention of the word "champions," the attentiveness of the listening students seemed to sharpen.

Perhaps Dumbledore had noticed their sudden stillness, for he smiled as he said, "The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch."

Filch, who had been lurking unnoticed in a far corner of the Hall, now approached Dumbledore carrying a great wooden chest encrusted with jewels, which looked rather ancient and a fair bit mystical.

A murmur of excitement rose from the watching students.

"The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman," said Dumbledore as Filch placed the chest carefully on the table before him, "And they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways...their magical prowess - their daring - their powers of deduction - and, of course, their ability to cope with danger."

At this last word, the Hall was filled with a silence so absolute that nobody seemed to be breathing.

"As you know, three champions compete in the tournament," Dumbledore went on serenely, "One from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire."

Professor Dumbledore now took out his wand and tapped three times upon the top of the casket. The lid creaked slowly open. Dumbledore reached inside it and pulled out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It would have been entirely unremarkable had it not been full to the brim with dancing blue-white flames.

The Headmaster closed the casket and placed the goblet carefully on top of it, where it would be clearly visible to everyone in the Hall. "Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet," said Dumbledore. "Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.

"To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation," said Dumbledore, "I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line."

Harry frowned. He'd never heard of this 'age line'.

 _There's no such thing,_ Tom put in suspiciously, _There are spells that can do that, of course, but no one ever calls them anything as absurd as an 'age line'._

Harry frowned. Was Professor Dumbledore trying to mislead them?

"Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all."

"Your Headmaster has me second-guessing my decision to enter," Adina mused from across the table.

"A testament to your sanity," Harry wanted to say, but he kept his mouth firmly pressed in a thin line, staring with trepidation at the curious magical artifact which, at a second glance, looked incredibly ugly and grim to his eyes.

* * *

"Harry?"

Harry looked up from the large pile of NEWT-level charms books he and Hermione had dislodged from the shelves of the Hogwarts library, smiling brightly when he saw Adina standing behind him.

"Adina! You found the library!"

She laughed softly. "A happy accident. I asked some other Hogwarts students where I might find you, and they quickly informed me that you were probably in the library."

Harry chuckled awkwardly. "I guess I have a bit of a reputation."

"There are worse things to be known for." She gestured at the empty chair on the other side of the table. "May I?"

"Oh, yes, of course." Harry hurriedly pushed some books to the side. "Please sit."

Adina sat down with enviable grace, and immediately held out her hand to Hermione. "Adina Christiansen."

Looking a little flustered, Hermione reached out and took the other girls' hand. "H-Hermione Granger," she stuttered.

"She's the classmate I told you about," Harry put in, "The one who I thought might be interested by your project."

Adina's eyes lit up, and Hermione glanced between them curiously. "Project?"

Adina nodded avidly. "I'm currently raising funds and drafting legislation to facilitate the construction of the first magical orphanage."

Hermione's eyebrows rose; predictably, she wasn't quite as unreservedly eager as Harry was, and immediately looked a bit wary, but interest was certainly present in her gaze. "Do you mean...an orphanage exclusively for magical children?"

Adina nodded. "The purpose would be to remove magical children from muggle orphanages and less stable foster care situations, while also providing a feasible option for magical families who cannot take care of their own children."

Hermione nodded slowly, glancing over at Harry briefly. "Then the purpose would be to provide a home for magical children who don't have one?"

"Precisely."

Hermione seemed to relax slightly at the confirmation. "Wouldn't it be more efficient - not to mention beneficial and ethical - to provide more funding to muggle orphanages and work to improve the muggle childcare system?"

Adina seemed quite delighted by the question. "Well, there are two reasons that immediately come to mind," she began, "The first being that I wouldn't be able to find as much support for such a project, especially from the Danish Ministry of Magic."

Hermione looked like she disapproved, but didn't say anything, and merely nodded.

"But more importantly, I believe that the magical world's interest in magical children should not begin at age eleven; the welfare of magical children should be our concern from the moment they first open their eyes."

"I agree," Hermione said, "But my point still stands."

Adina smiled at her. "My project would allow the Ministry to guarantee the well-being of magical children first hand, and would ensure that magical children are raised in an environment where their unique needs are met; where they can be taught about their magic and the magical world at a young age and be allowed to develop in an environment that normalizes qualities that might have isolated them in the muggle world."

Hermione pursed her lips. "But at the same time, won't that have the effect of increasing the divide between the magical and muggle worlds?"

"Perhaps," Adina conceded, "But I am of the opinion that it is a small price to pay, which can perhaps be minimized in the future."

"Is it really a small price, though? Progress in the muggle world is quickly outpacing progress in the magical world, both technologically and socially; the more we allow ourselves to become a separate civilization, the more we -"

* * *

"- but surely there's something to be said for the role of the magical government in the muggle world extending beyond national defence -"

Harry jotted down another point in his diary, careful not to elbow Theo, who had fallen asleep beside him. The other boy had found them in the library around two o'clock, with the intention of inquiring into the progress of Harry and Hermione's spell-crafting project, but he was met instead by a rather unexpected scene; Hermione debating a blond Durmstrang student on the merits of magical-muggle relations, and Harry sitting back in his chair covertly taking notes on their arguments. Through a series of glances and gestures Harry had determined that Theo had sought them out in an effort to avoid his Ancient Runes homework, and thus was not all that affected by the unexpected of the scene he had stumbled upon, and was perfectly happy to stare on in fascination until he fell asleep.

Harry hadn't had the heart to wake him; however, dinner was drawing nearer, and the other students were beginning to vacate the library.

He glanced at his watch: _17:47._ Yes, it was about time.

"Er, Adina, Hermione?"

Hermione stopped short in a particularly long-winded exposition, and they both turned to look at him, seeming a little put off by the interruption.

"It's...dinner time."

Both girls blinked, but then Adina sat up straight. "Ah, yes, they will be drawing names from the Goblet." She glanced over at Hermione. "Were it not something of such great importance, I would happily forego dinner to finish this discussion."

Hermione blushed. "Oh, um, well, there's always another day I suppose. You'll be here all year."

"Unless she's selected as a champion and then killed in one of the tasks," Harry commented.

Hermione glared at him, outraged, and Adina raised her eyebrows.

Harry grimaced. "Oh, I just said that out loud, didn't I?"

"Yes, yes you did," Hermione said shrilly.

"Ah, yes, well...you have my apologies, Adina – I didn't at all mean to -"

Adina shook her head, lips twitching amusedly. "Not at all."

Harry glanced over at Theo, and concentrated very hard. _"Aguamenti."_

A torrent of cold water came raining down on Theo's head, causing the boy to start so violently that his chair tipped over.

Theo scrambled to his feet and glared at Harry. "What the _hell_ was that!?"

"A wandless _aguamenti_ charm, apparently," Adina put in, apparently very impressed.

Harry half grimaced, half grinned. "It, er, seemed...efficient?"

Theo glowered at him. "No, it just popped into your head and you wanted to see if you could do it."

"...maybe."

* * *

"Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision," Professor Dumbledore announced after the Halloween feast, "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber -" he indicated the door behind the staff table "- where they will be receiving their first instructions."

He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them into a nearly pitch black. The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, blueish-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes.

The flames inside the goblet turned suddenly red again. Sparks began to fly from it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it — the whole room gasped. Professor Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm's length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he read, in a strong, clear voice, "Will be Viktor Krum."

Harry glanced over at Adina, who looked resigned and a little disappointed, but was clapping politely nonetheless.

Viktor Krum then rose from the Slytherin table and slouched up toward Professor Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber.

"Bravo, Viktor!" Karkaroff boomed from the staff table, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. "Knew you had it in you!"

The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone's attention was focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," Professor Dumbledore announced, "Is Fleur Delacour!"

One of the girls from Beauxbatons rose gracefully to her feet, shook back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables.

Two of the girls who had not been selected had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their heads buried in their arms. When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it.

And suddenly, the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Professor Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.

"The Hogwarts champion," he called, "Is Cedric Diggory!"

Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to their feet, screaming and stamping, as Diggory made his way past them, grinning broadly, and headed off toward the chamber behind the teachers' table. Indeed, the applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some time before the Headmaster could make himself heard again.

"Excellent!" Professor Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real -"

But Professor Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking; the fire in the goblet had just turned red again, and sparks were again erupting from it.

Then, long flame shot suddenly into the air, carrying with it another piece of parchment. Face blank, the Headmaster reached out to catch it, and held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which the elderly wizard stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at him. And then he cleared his throat and read out two words that had Harry's stomach turning.

"Harry Potter."

Harry's breath caught in his chest, and suddenly his vision was grey and cloudy, fixed on nowhere in particular.

He could vaguely hear chatter around him, urgent murmurs like the buzzing of hundreds of angry bees.

That wasn't...it wasn't his name, was it? Surely, he was hearing things.

"Harry Potter!"

Harry only vaguely registered the second enunciation of his name.

No, it was impossible. Completely impossible. After all, _why_ would something like this happen? Someone must have rigged the tournament, but why? Sure, he was skilled - probably as good as any seventh year in a lot of ways...the ways that would count for the tournament - but almost no one knew that. He was a fourth year, and would be competing in a dangerous tournament meant for sixth and seventh years. If he were a lesser wizard, it was likely that he'd -

He'd die.

Maybe that was the point. At the very least, he'd be put in a plethora of situations where it would be all too easy to...

Tom was conspicuously silent, even as Harry mentally begged him to say something, anything.

He was finally jostled out of his daze by a hand gripping his shoulder urging him out of his seat, and with that he straightened himself, and made his way to the chamber behind the staff table, stubbornly avoiding everyone's gazes, keeping his own firmly fixed on the door in front of him as he focused on trying to silence the angry barrage of frantic thoughts which were threatening to consume his brain, which, itself, remained stonily blank.

When he entered the room, he kept his footfalls as silent as possible, and the other champions didn't notice him until a moment before there was a sound of scurrying feet behind him, and Ludo Bagman entered the room. He took Harry by the arm and led him forward.

"Extraordinary!" he muttered, squeezing Harry's arm. "Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen...lady," he added, approaching the fireside and addressing the other three, "May I introduce - incredible though it may seem - the fourth Triwizard champion?"

For a moment Harry was consumed by utter hatred for the excited man.

Viktor Krum straightened up. His surly face darkened as he surveyed Harry. Cedric looked nonplussed. He looked from Bagman to Harry and back again as though sure he must have misheard what Bagman had said.

Fleur Delacour, however, tossed her hair, smiling, and said, "Oh, fairy funny joke, Meester Bagman."

"Joke?" Bagman repeated, bewildered. "No, no, not at all! Harry's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!"

Krum's thick eyebrows contracted slightly. Cedric was still looking politely bewildered.

Fleur frowned. "But evidently zair 'as been a mistake," she said contemptuously to Bagman. "'E cannot compete. 'E is too young."

"Well...it is amazing," admitted Bagman, rubbing his chin and smiling down at Harry. "But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name's come out of the goblet...I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage...it's down in the rules, you're obliged...Harry will just have to do the best he -"

The door behind them opened again, and a large group of people came in: Professor Dumbledore, followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape.

"Madame Maxime!" said Fleur at once, striding over to her headmistress. "Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!"

Again, Harry was consumed by anger, but only for a second, until he realized that compared to these seventh year students, he really _was_ a little boy.

Madame Maxime had drawn herself up to her full, and considerable, height. The top of her handsome head brushed the candlefilled chandelier, and her gigantic black satin bosom swelled. "What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?" she said imperiously.

"I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," Professor Karkaroff put in with a steely smile. "Two Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions - or have I not read the rules carefully enough?" He gave a short and nasty laugh.

"C'est impossible," Madame Maxime agreed, placing one of her massive hands upon Delacour's shoulder. "'Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions. It is most unjust."

"We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore," Karkaroff continued, his steely smile still in place, while his pale blue eyes grew more frigid by the minute. "Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools."

Professor Dumbledore acknowledged them, saying a quiet, "Perhaps, before examining the particulars, we shall try to reconstruct the events preceding this extraordinary event," before turning to Harry.

"Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?" he asked calmly.

Harry could not keep up his polite indifference any longer, and a scowl darkened his face. "No," he said lowly.

"Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?"

Harry blinked, ire forgotten for a split second. "Wait, would that have even _worked?"_ he asked incredulously.

He saw Professor Dumbledore's lips quirk upward, but only slightly. "No, indeed it would not."

Harry's scowl returned.

"Mr. Crouch...Mr. Bagman," Karkaroff said almost sweetly, completely ignoring them, "You are our — er — objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?"

Bagman wiped his face with his handkerchief and looked at Mr. Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half darkness making him look much older, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke, however, it was in a curt voice.

"We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament."

"Wait, what _exactly_ do you mean by _bound_?" Harry interjected.

He was ignored.

"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front," Bagman concluded, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now closed.

"I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students," Karkaroff said. He had dropped his unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a very ugly look indeed. "You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore."

"But Karkaroff, it doesn't work like that," Bagman interjected. "The Goblet of Fire's just gone out - it won't reignite until the start of the next tournament -"

Honestly, you'd think these people would know more about the tournament they were signing their students up for...

"- in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!" Karkaroff cried suddenly. "After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!"

"Empty threat, Karkaroff," a voice from near the door growled out. "You can't leave your champion now. He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?"

Moody had just entered the room. He limped toward the fire, and with every right step he took, there was a loud and ominous thunk.

"Convenient?" Karkaroff said airily. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody."

Harry could tell he was trying to sound disdainful, as though what Moody was barely worth his notice, but his hands gave him away; they had balled themselves into shaking fists.

"Don't you?" Moody said quietly. "It's very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out."

"Evidently, someone 'oo wished to give 'Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!" Madame Maxime cut in bitterly.

"I quite agree, Madame Maxime," Karkaroff concurred, bowing to her. "I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards -"

"If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Potter," Moody said, "But...funny thing...I don't hear him saying a word..."

Harry grit his teeth. " _That's_ because everyone's ignoring me! Please, I realize you are all very upset, but I can assure you that Professor Moody is correct and I have _far_ more reason to complain -"

"Why should you complain?" Fleur Delacour blurted out, stamping her foot. "'You 'ave ze chance to compete, don't you? We 'ave all been 'oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A zousand Galleons in prize money -!"

Harry couldn't help it – he laughed. Loudly. And very derisively. "I'm the heir to the House of Black. If I want a thousand Galleons I can go ask my godfather for them. He'd be more than happy to oblige."

Professor Dumbledore looked at him disapprovingly, but he didn't care anymore; he continued to laugh.

"Zis isn't funny!" Delacour cried.

"I'm sorry, but it is," Harry said in between chuckles, "It's _hilarious_ that you're all so offended that Hogwarts will have two champions that no one cares that if I compete I will _almost certainly die!"_

The room went silent at that, and everyone was staring at him, unnerved – especially Professor McGonagall, who looked absolutely shocked by his outburst; Professor Snape looked utterly unsurprised, on the other hand, having borne witness to his temper during the summertime. Professor Moody, however, was nodding along with him, looking rather impressed.

"Perhaps you would care to enlighten the others to your concerns, Harry," Professor Dumbldore softly.

Harry's scowl returned to his face. "One of the first things you told us about this tournament, sir, was the death toll. The _death toll._ In fact, that's the only interesting thing I've heard about this ridiculous event. I _didn't_ enter my name; I have no _desire_ to compete! Ask anyone – they'll tell you how I've explicitly stated over and over again that I want nothing to do with this whole thing; I don't even plan on attending the tasks! So it stands to reason that this is _not my doing_ , and therefore someone put a lot of effort into entering my name. The most obvious conclusion? Someone wants me _dead_. And they want me to die in a really convoluted, elaborate way, which suggests that they're also a sadistic psychopath with a flair for dramatics. I'll be frank here – I'm extremely disturbed by this, and I don't know why no one else is."

Another tense silence followed.

Harry took a deep breath. "Look, can we please just get this over with? Just un-enter me, or whatever."

"Dear boy," Bagman spoke up nervously, "The emergence of your name from the Goblet of Fire constitutes a binding magical contract -"

"Yes, every magical contract is a _binding_ magical contract," Harry snapped contemptuously, unable to completely reign in his ire. Honestly, did these people _have_ to be so incompetent? "Every contract is _binding ,_ by definition – that's the whole point of a contract. But what _is_ the contract?"

Everyone looked at him oddly.

Harry let out a shuddering breath, gritting his teeth. _"Do you have a copy?"_ he ground out.

At that, Mr. Crouch waved his wand, and a stack of parchment appeared in thin air and fell into his hand.

Harry painstakingly drew a pleasant smile over his face and held out his hand. "May I, Mr. Crouch?"

The man wordlessly handed the stack of parchment to him, eyes narrow.

"Thank you very much," Harry said evenly. And with that he turned on his heel and strode purposefully over to the rickety old chair and table in the corner, plopping himself down unceremoniously and withdrawing his quill, inkwell, and diary from his robe pocket, beginning to pore over the document in front of him.

"Mr. Potter -"

He didn't know who said his name – he didn't care anymore; his attention was completely consumed by the task at hand.

"No," he said simply, "I will not vacate this chair until I have located a loophole. No one can persuade me to do otherwise, so I beg of you, don't even try."

And, thank goodness, no one bothered him after that.

* * *

Draco was concerned. Harry Potter, one of his closest friends and the unofficial leader of the Order of the Midnight Sun, had missed their meeting last night. In fact, he had been conspicuously absent ever since...well, ever since his name had come out of the Goblet of Fire.

At first he had been relieved by the other boy's absence. He did _not_ want to be around Harry after that. He'd seen his face; shock and dread had been written all over it...but this was Harry he was talking about – that shock and dread was liable to morph into fury at any moment.

After they were all dismissed from the Great Hall, the fourth year Slytherin boys had waited for him in their dorm room, all of them feeling a little apprehensive. Eventually, they'd all fallen asleep, but it had by no means been a pleasant night. Everyone was a little unnerved by both Harry's absence and the threat of his return.

Harry had always come off as a little...well, off. Slightly unhinged. He supposed a killing curse to the head might do that to you. He knew Crabbe and Goyle were downright afraid of the boy, and even the eternally unaffected Zabini approached their roommate - the Heir of Slytherin - with caution. Theo...well, he had privileged status as Harry's first friend, and Draco honestly doubted that any harm would ever come to him as a result of Harry's temper.

As for Draco himself, he had been on the receiving end of Harry Potter's temper just a few too many times now, and would rather not have to witness it again, lest he be subjected to yet another traumatic experience by the person he was quickly coming to admire most in the world. What? He respected power, like any good Slytherin would.

So yes, at first, he was relieved. But then Harry missed their Order meeting, and now it was Monday morning, and there was still no sign of the other boy. Harry was nearly as dedicated to his classes as Granger was, and wouldn't be skipping unless absolutely necessary.

But it was just as he was mulling over this that he heard a number of gasps as the Great Hall erupted with chatter. He immediately looked over his shoulder to find a very dishevelled looking Harry Potter striding purposefully into the room from the the door beside the staff table, which he blatantly ignored, like just about everything else – right toward him.

A few moments later, the other boy was standing in front of him, a completely blank look fixed on his clearly worn and tired face.

"Follow me," he said dully, turning on his heel and heading towards the doors of the Great Hall.

Draco obeyed without hesitation.

* * *

Sort of cliffhanger, I guess. I'll try to post promptly. In the meantime, review!

*Note: while I say those things in the same line, I'm not implying that your not reviewing will make me refrain from posting, because that would be a totally dick move. But still, reviews are always good food for thought ;)


	10. Ecstasy

**Disclaimer:** I don't own this. Not even a teensy tiny little bit.

 **AN:** Yes, Harry's odd behaviour is deliberate (namely his progression from unusually self indulgent and careless to...well, you'll see)...as is alluded to in the chapter title. As for other things that seem odd...please do point out any questionable decisions...I was up _really_ late last night and I'm probably not editing this as thoroughly as I should be.

* * *

 **Chapter 10: Ecstasy**

"Potter, stay behind."

Harry frowned slightly, eyes not leaving Professor Snape as he packed away his books. He knew it wasn't anything academic – he'd been performing almost flawlessly in Potions thus far (emphasis on the _almost_...but that was neither here nor there), and the Professor seemed to be acknowledging that for a change. Was the man _still_ concerned about his sleep? The master soul's casual invasions of his mind hadn't left him many restful hours of late, but surely he didn't look _that_ bad. His eyes were probably a bit darker and his skin a bit paler, and maybe his movements had grown a bit sluggish, but it wasn't _that_ noticeable...was it? At the very least, he was quite certain he did not at all resemble an inferius...yet.

Or maybe...was this about his reaction to being entered into the Triwizard Tournament?

He'd apologized. As soon as he'd sorted out things with Draco, he'd written notes to everyone who had been present during his outburst, apologizing profusely for his rudeness and explaining that they had nothing to worry about; he would not be participating in the tournament after all.

Oh, how he loved loopholes. More than treacle tart...more than quidditch...more than -

"Meet you in the library?" he heard Hermione murmur as she passed his desk.

"Sure," he agreed absently, still trying to figure out if there was anything he loved more than loopholes at the moment. He wasn't coming up with anything.

Once the classroom had emptied – which usually didn't take long for Potions, because even the Slytherins tended to be eager to escape Professor Snape's presence – he hefted his book bag over his shoulder and strode up toward the professor's desk, staring him right in the eye.

They continued like that for a few moments – a curious interaction between two Legillimens who were unable to break into each other's minds if only out of sheer principle – before Professor Snape opened his mouth.

"The Headmaster has requested your presence. The password is 'licorice wands'."

Harry blinked, perhaps a little stupidly, before he nodded slowly. "Thank you sir."

And with that he turned on his heel and left, feeling strangely hurried as he strode do the dungeon corridors. Once he reached a staircase with a banister, he pulled his notebook and muggle pen out of his bag to write a note.

 _'Hermione - library will have to wait – I've been summoned to the Headmaster's office. Most likely won't see you until dinner.'_

Sparing a self-satisfied grin at his and Hermione's invention, which, though a pale imitation of the desired end product, was really quite clever (in his opinion, at least...Tom wasn't impressed, but he was rarely ever impressed by anything that didn't involve manipulating other people or casting dark curses, so Harry was actually ok with this), he continued up the stairwell, weaving his way through the cavernous corridors and winding passages of Hogwarts, absently mulling over what might have prompted the Headmaster's request. Oddly, he didn't feel particularly nervous – more curious, and even a little bit eager. Tom likely noticed, because he spoke up before long,

 _I am not certain as to what you are smiling about, you foolish child, but you had better wipe that grin off your face and readjust your occlumency shields._

Had he been smiling? He hadn't noticed. Nevertheless, he did as Tom said, making sure that everything was in place.

"I wonder what this is about..." Harry mused out loud, phrasing his question to Tom in a way that could be interpreted as him talking to himself by any listening ears.

Tom's reply was dismissive. _As wary as I am of any contact Dumbledore instigates between us, it is almost certain that this is related to either the Triwizard Tournament, your selection by the Goblet of Fire, or the letters you wrote._

Harry nodded subtly. That was completely reasonable, if not a little disappointing.

 _That should not, however, imply that you can by any means lower your guard, Harry,_ Tom warned sternly, _Why you seem eager to meet with the old man once again, I do not know – given your state of disarray after our last meeting – nor do I care, but whatever personal interest you have in the man cannot eclipse the shadow of the danger he poses to us in your mind._

"Mhmm."

 _Just nod, you foolish child. You know how I despise your undignified, semantically ambiguous mumblings._

It was true – Tom really did hate it when the sounds 'er', 'um', 'uh', 'uhuh', or 'mhmm' came out of his mouth, and they were always followed by a very brief and mild bursts of pain in his head. This was a frequent occurrence, and he really didn't notice anymore, much to Tom's chagrin.

It was then that he arrived in front of a familiar griffin.

"Licorice wands."

As he began the ascent up to the Headmaster's office, Tom put in one last word – because he would certainly not be distracting him for the duration of his meeting.

 _Any missteps will be dealt with later._

Ominous, but completely predictable. Also a completely idle threat, because it was almost certain in Harry's mind that he or Professor Dumbledore would end up saying something that set Tom off, inciting a vicious rant and unbridled pain once they were in the safety of his dorm room. Tom was so very predictable in some ways.

Suddenly he felt decidedly less optimistic about the impending conversation, and at the same time, much more amused. No matter what he did, pain was inevitable...much like in the rest of life, he considered. Why meaningless suffering made him amused, he didn't quite know; Tom, of course, was amused by meaningless suffering, but he was never the one doing the suffering, so Harry wasn't quite sure where this particular train of thought came from.

"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore."

The man smiled brightly, upon looking up from the very thick book upon which his eyes had been trained. "Ah, Harry. How good of you to come. Please, sit."

Harry did as he was told, unable to stifle the wandering of his eyes. The Headmaster's office had an elegant, whimsical sort of clutter to it, and he had no doubt that he could spend hours there just rifling through books and scrolls, playing with trinkets, and chatting with paintings. Perhaps he could do just that, one day - perhaps that might even count as a worthy prank, in Sirius's eyes.

"Lemon drop?"

Harry blinked. "Thank you sir." He reached over and plopped one of the small yellow candies into his mouth.

"Now, you are perhaps wondering why you are here."

Harry was about to innocently declare that he wasn't quite sure of the nature of the meeting, but then an idea struck him; perhaps, if he earned Tom's ire early in the conversation, the whole thing would end up being less stressful as a whole. So his lips twitched, and he shook his head. "Not at all sir."

"Oh?"

"I'm here because I walked here from the dungeons," Harry said, very informatively.

Professor Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Quite right. Perhaps you are wondering why you walked here from the dungeons."

"Oh, definitely not, sir. I walked here because I decided to walk here."

 _What are you_ doing? Tom interjected incredulously, and Harry could tell that the older man was having to restrain himself from throwing a fit. _This is our most dangerous foe, and you are playing word games._

"Most excellent, Harry. I suppose you know why you decided to walk here?"

Harry nodded. "Well, there's a few reasons, the first one being that you invited me here," he finally relented.

"Indeed. But I must wonder, do you know why I invited you here?"

"No idea, sir." A slight exaggeration, which the man no doubt caught on to, because his eyebrows rose slightly and his lips twitched.

"Well then, I suppose I have the element of surprise after all, then."

"Should I be worried, sir?" Harry asked, somewhat seriously.

Professor Dumbledore smiled benignly, though. "Not at all, Harry. I merely wanted to congratulate you."

"Oh..um...may I ask on what, sir?"

"On _not_ being a Triwizard Champion."

Harry couldn't quite stifle a small grin. "Ah, thank you, sir. I'm quite pleased with the outcome myself."

Professor Dumbledore chuckled softly. "I confess, I was incredibly curious when I read your note, as to how you had managed to find away around such a...shall we say, _well established_ magical contract – indeed, most in your position would simply accept that it was definitive, and leave it at that – and was eager to know exactly what your Slytherin cunning had concocted. Of course, unable to restrain myself, I resolved to skim the contract as well, and encountered a few curiosities, which prompted me to check the Hogwarts student register."

Harry could not resist a small grin.

"Harry Black, is it now? It has a nice ring to it."

"I thought so too," Harry said, a little smugly.

"A name change – so simple and yet so effective. Very clever. Very clever indeed. May I ask how you arrived at this solution?"

"Well," Harry began musingly, "There were a few clues right from the start – such as the fact that if a student dies, they cease to be a champion – the contract actually bothers to state this explicitly, which is...conspicuous, to say the least, implying that if the clause wasn't there, if a student who died in the competition - or outside of it - still came out of it maintaining the most points, they could still win, depending on how it was set up."

The Headmaster nodded. "An astute observation."

"Then there was a section in the contract that explained how the magic of the Goblet is in fact linked to each school's student register – and how a student not in the register cannot compete – which is how you managed to put the age restriction in place, I'm assuming. The 'age line' was a bluff."

The Headmaster's lips twitched, and a small smile spread across them.

Harry's eyes widened. "Or was it a prank? I heard more than a few students ended up with beards and overgrown ears and noses..."

Professor Dumbledore leaned toward him conspiratorially. "Between you and I, Harry, I did have a good laugh at it. I do love to see my students putting their creativity and determination to work...only to be rewarded by something they most certainly did not expect." He winked. "Professor McGonagall was furious, of course."

Harry grinned. "Anyway, if you had simply placed a charm on top of the Goblet or the area around it, _someone_ would have found a way around it...however, no one would think to falsify records in the school registries...except whoever put my name in. I happen to be aware that the Hogwarts student register is linked to an identical document in the Department of Magical Records at the Ministry of Magic, and therefore whoever put my name in was likely able to do so because they falsified my records at the Ministry – Mr. Malfoy confirmed that my birthdate had been changed – implying that it was actually another British witch or wizard, and one with full access to the DMR."

Professor Dumbledore nodded, looking quite pleased with his observations.

"Interestingly enough, I'm guessing that this is also why only Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang can ever compete in the tournament."

"Another astute observation."

Harry grinned again. "Anyhow, these facts imply that erasing a record at the Ministry of Magic also erases a record in the Hogwarts student register, simultaneously nullifying its existence in the eyes of the Goblet. So as far as the Goblet of Fire is concerned, Harry Potter no longer exists, and no longer has to compete."

"Ah, excellent work, Harry, excellent work indeed. Twenty points to Slytherin, I think."

Harry continued to grin, feeling quite accomplished.

"But I must wonder if the name change might prove inconvenient at some point in the future."

Harry shrugged. "I can change it back after the tournament."

Professor Dumbledore didn't look entirely convinced, but settled on, "Fair enough."

Harry nodded, before hesitating. "Is that...all, sir?"

Professor Dumbledore stared at him for a moment. "Not quite. As you noted on Halloween night, it is likely that someone placed your name in the Goblet for nefarious purposes. And as you have just stated, the culprit likely has access to important records at the Ministry of Magic, suggesting that this isn't merely a cruel prank."

Harry nodded slowly. "So...you agree that someone is trying to kill me."

"Perhaps not kill, but as I said, nefarious purposes."

Harry frowned, unsure as to where this was going.

"I confess, I am uneasy, Harry."

Harry's eyebrows rose, a little surprised that Professor Dumbledore was being so frank with him.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Professor Dumbledore seemed to consider the question for a moment. "Many learned men have made statements along the lines of, 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing' - and I agree entirely. As I said last time we spoke at length, you are but a child, and you deserve to feel safe and comfortable like any child ought to...but you will also recall that I qualified my statement with another that is equally true. It is undeniable that you, despite your age, are remarkably capable...and possess more knowledge than most in your position might have."

Harry frowned slightly, not quite sure if the Professor was being genuine.

"You have shown poor judgment in the past - just as most your age do - but you have also shown evidence of maturity, intelligence, and adaptability. And though poor some of your decisions have been, they exemplified determination, resourcefulness, fierce independence, and deep personal motivation, which, in its own way, is admirable."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, a little baffled.

The professor waved away his gratitude. "What is more relevant to the matter at hand, however, are the implications of my assessment."

Harry frowned.

"I will be frank. I do not trust you, Harry."

Harry stiffened in his seat.

"I do not trust you to leave your safety in the hands of your teachers, and I do not trust you to share any concerns or relevant observations with those who will not trust you with their own. At the same time, I can trust you to be vigilant and insightful, and to deal with any crises that arise in a reasonable manner. So you see, I have something of a dilemma.

"The fact that you have shown yourself to be a capable and reasonable young man, but one who will not trust unless he himself is trusted, has encouraged me to place a heavier burden on your shoulders than I might have otherwise. So I am telling you now, that you are, while beloved by many because of what happened on Halloween night all those years ago, equally despised by others for the very same reason. There are many dangerous witches and wizards that supported Voldemort who still walk free, as I think you are very much aware – and I urge to remember that the walls of this castle may not protect you from them as much as we would like to think. You have many friends, admirers, and protectors here, Harry, but you cannot afford to forget that you walked these halls alongside Quirinius Quirrell and Peter Pettigrew, both of whom would have seen you dead – and might have succeeded, were we less fortunate."

Harry let out a shaky breath, a little overwhelmed.

"And so I am asking you directly to exercise great caution, this year. Your success in excusing yourself from the Triwizard Tournament will necessitate that the culprit will be forced to rethink their plans, and change directions. Your guardian and professors, of course, have been notified, and...subtle inquiries are being made, but I will also ask that you personally keep an eye peeled, and report to Professor Snape or myself any odd behaviour, whether it be from professors, students, or guests. In this way, I am placing the same responsibility that I have placed on your teachers. Do you understand what I am saying to you?"

Harry nodded stiffly. "I do."

The man smiled cheerily. "Most excellent, Harry, most excellent. Now, how have you been finding your term, thus far?"

Harry frowned slightly, caught off guard by the sudden change in subject. "Sorry, sir...what do you mean?"

The man folded his long, slender hands pleasantly on his lap. "Are you enjoying your classes?"

Harry simply stared at him, for a moment. "...why, sir?"

The Headmaster's eyes twinkled. "Must I have an excuse to inquire into the progress of one of my more brilliant students?"

Harry chuckled awkwardly. "I'm enjoying my classes, sir, as always. They're very...educational," he said, rather lamely.

"But apparently not engaging enough to keep you satisfied – Professor Snape has made me aware that you've taken an interest in spell crafting."

Harry's eyebrows rose, and he was suddenly made aware of the uneasy realization that everything he said and did at Professor Snape's house was probably being reported directly to the Headmaster. He felt an irrational stab of betrayal at the thought, but shoved aside those feelings quickly and nodded. "I have, sir – I've been crafting charms related to electromagnetism."

Professor Dumbledore looked absolutely delighted at that. "How very bold of you, Harry."

"Thanks, I think?"

Professor Dumbledore chuckled. "I take it, given your obvious interest in magical contracts, that you are approaching these projects from structural standpoint?"

"Structural, sir?" Harry asked confusedly.

Professor Dumbledore nodded. "There are two main schools of thought, when it comes to the methodology of spell crafting: structural and experimental."

Harry frowned. "I've never come across an alternative method for spell-crafting, sir."

The Headmaster chuckled. "No, you wouldn't have. Methodology isn't always pedagogical, my boy."

Harry pursed his lips. "Are you saying that formal instruction on spell-crafting methodology revolves around theory and justification rather than practical methods themselves?"

"Very good, Harry," the professor said approvingly, "It is a curious thing; while nearly every instructive text will propose a structural method, in practice, very few spell-crafters will stick to it. As you are well aware of at this point, tructural spell crafting involves working with very specific runic patterns, using meticulous arithmantic formulas and algorithms to predict the behaviour of one's magic, and arrays to restrict magical flow, and it is a painstaking process to say the least."

"But sir...how else would you design wand movements and verify incantations and their appropriate substitutions by wand movements?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"Trial and error."

Harry's jaw dropped. "That would take _forever._ "

Professor Dumbledore chuckled again. "One might think so. However, most students of arithmancy and runes use approximation methods and well-worn short cuts quite liberally, and they simplify the theoretical calculations, while allowing for intelligent experimentation, that they will typically weave into an individual style of crafting spells. Note the use of the word 'style' where 'method' might have been."

"Approximation methods?" Harry asked confusedly.

"Yes – I believe they are taught...perhaps in sixth year? I would have to review the syllabus to be sure."

Finally what that man was saying settled in, and Harry stared at him in horror. He had wasted _so much_ time and effort. Suddenly, he felt Tom's amusement, and felt extreme annoyance. He _knew_. The bastard knew. And so did Professor Snape! Why were all the adults in his life so _cruel_?

He absently realized that he didn't consider Remus or Sirius to be adults in his life, and that the Headmaster had transcended the concept of adulthood altogether.

Meanwhile, Professor Dumbledore was gracing him with a sympathetic smile. "Your indignation is palpable, Harry."

Embarrassed, Harry stiffened in his seat.

But the professor's smile softened. "An appropriate reaction, I think. Your enthusiasm is admirable."

"...thank you sir," Harry mumbled.

"Not at all. I must caution you against indulging yourself in too many short-cuts, now that you possess this knowledge, however; you've created an advantage for yourself that eludes most spell-crafters."

Harry frowned. "What's that, sir?"

"You have cultivated experience in crafting a spell from nothing; you have not learned to rely on the techniques and tools of others; this experience will serve you well in the event that you indulge in a project of a highly irregular nature."

"What exactly do you mean by highly irregular, sir?"

"Spell deconstruction, for one," the professor offered casually, eyes twinkling.

Harry's eyes widened. Did the Headmaster know about his and Hermione's project? How would he – ah, library records and restricted section passes.

"Yes, I do indeed receive records of every book borrowed from the restriction section," the Headmaster confirmed, causing Harry to panic momentarily and make sure his occlumency shields were still in place, "Miss Granger's selections of _Working Backwards: a Generalized Method for Spell Deconstruction_ and _Static and Fluid Spell Analysis_ were quite telling. What truly caught my eye, however, was _Living Magic: Spells that Think._ "

Harry winced, recalling that particularly disappointing piece of literature.

Professor Dumbledore noticed his expression and chuckled. "I, myself, am rather partial to _Uncovering Sentience_ and _A Theory of Magical Emergence_. I daresay those are more what you're looking for," he said with a wink.

Harry blinked. "Thank you sir," he said in wonderment. He paused. "Sir, if I may ask..."

"Never be afraid to ask, Harry," the professor said seriously.

Harry smiled slightly. "Why are you taking such an interest in my extracurricular work?"

Professor Dumbledore looked at him contemplatively for a moment, before he smiled sadly. "I could give you many justifications for my interest...but between you and I, Harry, it is somewhat grounded in regret."

Harry frowned, once again thrown off guard by the man's frankness.

"I once knew a boy very much like yourself, Harry – clever, inventive, ambitious, and blessed with immense potential. It is one of my great regrets that I did not play the role in his education that he needed me to, and that I did not offer my hand in guidance when he required it. One can never be sure of these things...but in my old age I have come to find value in learning from mistakes which might not have even been so; and I have come to regret that I did not divert him from the rather tragic path that he took in life. I will live with this regret for the rest of my life; it pains me every day to think of him, to acknowledge that as much as he has disappointed me, I disappointed him first."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, realizing that the Headmaster was likely talking about Tom.

"You must understand, Harry, that I cared very deeply for your parents; they were both valuable allies and loyal and steadfast friends; I will say again that my inexcusable mistakes regarding your well-being have pained me greatly – but one thing that I am sure of is that if you fall to the same fate as the former student whom I did fail, this pain will become unbearable. So I am taking steps to circumvent this."

Harry had to resist promptly gaping falling into a state of near panic; why in _Merlin's name_ would the professor be telling him this? He was practically announcing that his interest in him was of an at least somewhat Machiavellian nature. That's...people don't _do_ that.

Meanwhile, the man went on. "Is this preferential treatment and partiality on my part? Most definitely; however, I daresay that you have a greater capacity to make good use of my literary recommendations than the average Hogwarts student."

Harry felt an inexplicable twinge of guilt at that statement, but he shoved it aside and nodded. "I...thank you, sir."

"I pray I have not made a grave mistake in providing you with information, though."

Harry frowned. "Why would that be a mistake?" Static electricity was pretty benign, wasn't it?

"I am hesitant to provide you with any more distractions from your coursework."

Harry smiled, relieved. "Oh, don't worry, sir. My mind often wanders to spell-crafting anyway."

The professor smiled back with a rather odd smile, that Harry couldn't quite interpret. "You have quite a busy mind, don't you, Harry?"

"You have no idea, sir," Harry said, hoping that he kept the bitterness out of his voice.

"Perhaps so. I do empathize, however. I often find my mind so crowded that I must turn my thoughts to just how crowded my thoughts are. Meta-thinking, if you will."

Harry chuckled uneasily. "And what have you been thinking about lately, sir?" he deflected, to Tom's annoyance.

"Oh, well, I think about a great many things, Harry. Indeed, just before you came, I was thinking about black swallowtails."

Harry blinked. "Black swallowtails, sir?"

"A species of butterfly, native to the Americas."

"Yes, I know...Professor Snape had me stripping hundreds of their wings this summer -"

Professor Dumbledore seemed quite amused by this statement.

"- but I meant to ask – why?"

"Ah, well, I'm really quite fond of butterflies, Harry."

Alright, a bit odd, but not good enough. "But why the black swallowtail?"

Professor Dumbledore smiled wistfully. "The black swallowtail only emerges from its chrysalis in the spring, after having trapped itself inside as the autumn dies away. If the metamorphosis begins too late or ends too early, the butterfly won't survive the harshness of winter. It's really fascinating, isn't it, Harry? How nature plays this balancing act, right under our noses."

"I suppose it is. I hadn't thought about it much."

"Perhaps you should. Though, again, I am loth to introduce more distractions into your already busy mind."

Harry nodded, and was silent for a moment. "But I'm still wondering, sir...why the black swallowtail? Surely there are other butterflies that do the exact same thing."

"Indeed there are, Harry, but I am especially fond of the black swallowtail. They are exceptionally beautiful, and yet, in years long passed, they were feared."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Why would anyone fear a butterfly?"

"Ah, well, black butterflies are a symbol of death."

Harry nodded slowly with a wry smile. "So...exceptionally beautiful and exceptionally bad luck."

"Exactly so...but only if one fears death."

"And you don't."

"I do not."

"Because death is just the next great adventure."

"Wise words, Harry, wise words."

Harry bit his lip. "But I am curious sir, as to the precise meaning of that phrase," he said musingly, "Reincarnation or a continuation of life after death, in heaven, or hell, or purgatory, or whatever you choose to believe in? I admit, I haven't quite yet figured out what you meant by that."

Professor Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Why do those options need to be mutually exclusive?"

Harry blinked. "Well, I suppose they don't."

"I agree. I have often mused on this myself – the metaphysics of the afterlife, that is. Where and what it is."

"And in your musings sir, have you ever considered that you might be wrong – that there's actually nothing on the other side? Just darkness and...peace?"

The professor smiled softly. "I have indeed, Harry."

"Then sir, why are you so sure that there's some great adventure waiting on the other side for us?"

The man's smile sharpened into something that was almost a grin. "I am not sure if an adventure lies on the other side – and it is this uncertainty that guarantees an adventure."

"Isn't that...an oxymoron?"

"It would be, had I specified where, when, and how said adventure would take place."

Realization dawned on Harry. "So the adventure is...experiencing death?"

"Precisely."

"That's rather...morbid sir."

Professor Dumbledore smiled amusedly. "Do you really think so? I think...that it is exactly what it is; I think it is the very definition of a great adventure. A calling to a mysterious realm beyond all you have ever known, a destiny that will be the culmination of everything you are and everything you could be, a leap forward into the great unknown, where anything is possible. And whatever trials you must overcome to reach it, and no matter what the outcome is – whatever the fate that awaits you is – you will be returning home."

Harry was silent for a moment. "Home," he said slowly, the word slipping from between his lips involuntarily. "I suppose that...yes, that really is fitting. If there's nothing on the other side, you're returning to nothingness – where you came from. If there's an afterlife you're returning to where your loved ones also rest. If you are reincarnated you're given a new home, but a home nonetheless. That really is quite a clever ambiguity, sir."

"I rather thought so, myself. Although, I would argue that it's not an ambiguity. You recall, perhaps, how I qualified my assertion that death is but the next great adventure?"

Harry thought about this for a moment. "You said that...it's an adventure...for the well-organized mind."

"Indeed. You see, Harry, the well-organized mind is a mind capable of understanding the world and acknowledging every possibility without judgment. It is able to separate the effectively objective from the fundamentally subjective. The well-organized mind can consider death in the absence of human egoism and vanity – it can acknowledge death as a natural and meaningful event rather than a threat or a relief. The well-organized mind is the mind that has been trained to forego fixations on the small details that so torment humanity, and see the greater whole as something beautiful to behold. Death, Harry, is just as profound and frightening and beautiful as Life. They give each other meaning, through the glorious mysteries we call Time and Consciousness. And if you still doubt me, consider this question – what would become of a universe where Death held no sway?"

Harry was silent for a moment. "I'm not sure, sir," he said quietly, "But the idea makes me...uneasy."

"As it should."

The were both silent for a few long moments, before the Headmaster spoke up again. "The mind...is a place of it's own. And in itself, can make a heaven of hell, or a hell of heaven. The mind is powerful, Harry, and not just because of the influence it asserts over the physical, but because of how closely it is entwined with the soul. A soul cannot sustain well-being while tied to a withering mind. And because the soul is tied inextricably to magic as well, we are left with this tenuous relationship between mental health and magical stability. The well organized mind is the mind that can control and understand the magic it has access to, and through doing so, can maintain a healthy soul."

Harry smiled grimly, trying very hard not to let the Headmaster's words affect him too deeply. "And how does one organize the mind, sir? Occlumency?"

"A good start. But there is more to the mind than the part we are able to control – the part that an invader can access. There are parts of the mind that even the most skilled legillimens cannot touch, without losing themselves entirely."

"How do I organize it if I can't control it?"

The professor looked at him thoughtfully, before he held his hand in the air. A moment later, a book zoomed across the room into his hand, which he passed to Harry.

Harry frowned as he looked at the cover. _"Logos and Pathos_."

"A favourite of mine," the man said, eyes twinkling. "I will pose to you a challenge, Harry – read it, study it, understand it...and then see if you can answer your own question."

Harry stared at the man, and then nodded determinedly. "I'll do that sir."

"I await your answer with bated breath."

* * *

"Harry? Haaaarry. Harry!"

Harry jolted awake when he felt a sharp pain in his ribs. Blinking blearily, he looked over to find Theo looking at him in concern. He then noticed that several people, including Adina and Krum, were looking at him with apprehension in their eyes.

"What?" he said blankly.

"You almost fell asleep in your soup," Theo said slowly.

It was then that Harry noticed that his nose was wet, and when he reached up to wipe it with a napkin, it was revealed that this wetness was, in fact, tomato soup.

"Thanks," Harry muttered.

"Anytime, mate," Theo replied unconvincingly, "You know, you could probably request a note from Madame Pomfrey, and take the rest of the day off. You look awful."

Harry shook his head. "I'm only tired."

Theo scoffed at him. "You don't say."

Harry shrugged and turned back to his food, ignoring the way his stomach squirmed at the thought of eating.

"You need sleep," Theo continued, "Your grades are starting to slip, don't think I haven't noticed – and you can't even stay awake to eat. It's been weeks since you got a full night's sleep – I don't think I've even seen you lie down in your bed all month -"

"I've been sleeping," Harry said with a scowl.

"Oh yeah? How many hours a night?"

"Four hours or something." Four one hour intervals, at least.

"Or something?" Theo echoed, unimpressed, "What does that even _mean_?"

"It means that you're overreacting. I'm fine."

"No, you're not! You -"

"I believe I will take it from here, Nott."

Harry's eyes widened and he paled, turning around to see Professor Snape looming behind them.

"Potter, with me."

Harry cast an annoyed glare at Theo, who looked very much the cat who caught the canary, before he rose to his feet to hurry after Professor Snape.

The man didn't say a word until they reached his office, and even when the door had shut behind them, he allowed a couple of minutes for their customary staring contest.

"You lied to me, Potter," the man said lowly.

"Sir, I'd never -"

" _Silence_."

Harry's mouth snapped shut.

"You very clearly informed me that your sleep had improved."

Well, it had, for a little while. But Voldemort 1.0 had been testy lately, to say the least. It honestly wouldn't have been that bad were it not for his occlumency shields; Tom's counterpart's mind would have slipped in and out of his mind fluidly, and he might not even remember, or even notice, the visions. As it stood, however, Voldemort 1.0's consciousness repeatedly hammered against his occlumency shields whenever he entered a deep enough sleep to allow for 'dreaming', resulting in terrible headaches and 'nightmares' of a disturbing nature. Apparently the mind was most 'pliable' at that point in the sleep cycle, and that combined with the strength of his occlumency shields created the perfect conditions for massive, blinding headaches and terrible nightmares. His most recent solution? Avoid REM sleep.

As it turned out, that wasn't really a great plan. But it was the only on he had, currently.

"It has," Harry said evenly, "I haven't dreamed at all lately."

"Because _haven't slept long enough to dream_ ," the potions master hissed, "Your ideas are hardly original, Potter; many an incompetent child has tried to sleep for shorter intervals to try to avoid dreams, and it _never works_."

Harry figured it was best to keep his mouth shut, at this point.

When he saw that Harry wasn't objecting, Professor Snape composed himself. "You will report to the infirmary immediately, and Madame Pomfrey will supply you with the appropriate potions. You will continue to report to her every day for the next week, and she will in turn report to me. And if you continue with these foolish antics we will have to take more drastic action."

Harry nodded morosely. "Yes, sir."

Great, just great. Why couldn't people just mind their own business?

* * *

"You can't tell anyone."

"Not even Theo?"

"Especially not Theo."

Draco looked like he didn't quite know whether to puff out his chest in pride or run the other way. "What exactly do you want me to brew?" he asked.

"A variant of the wiggenweld potion," Harry replied. He handed Draco a slip of paper. "I've outlined the requirements and supplied a potential recipe, but I'm sure you can improve it."

Draco's eyes sparkled in excitement.

"You can't get any ingredients from Professor Snape, so just tell me what you need and I'll get them immediately."

Draco nodded slowly, looking wary again. "How soon do you need this done?"

"I need a batch before tomorrow night."

Draco looked very unsure of himself for a moment, until he nodded determinedly. "It'll be done."

Harry nodded gratefully. "I knew I could count on you, Draco. I'm in a...really tight spot here. You have no idea how much it means to me to know that I can count on you."

Draco looked beyond pleased. "I won't let you down, Harry."

Harry grinned. "Excellent. I'll be in the library if you need me, but I'll be with Hermione and Adina, so be discrete."

"Of course."

Harry's smile slipped from his face as he walked off, and he nearly moaned as he cracked his neck. He had fallen asleep in the library and did something awful to it. The smile was back again, though, as soon as he thought of Draco. At least he could count on one of his friends to do as he asked without asking questions he couldn't answer.

* * *

Harry enjoyed being clever. Well, maybe sneaky was a better word - he hadn't felt very clever lately at all. Either way, it meant that despite the rampant levels of inconvenience that his life could reach, he usually got what he wanted. Within reason, of course. Did he want to spend the rest of the first term of his fourth year sleep deprived and playing a dangerous game of imbibing mostly untested (Tom's opinion was the only quality control he had access to) and possibly addictive potions to fool his professors? No, of course not. But he certainly didn't want to get stuck in the infirmary under observation while the master soul unintentionally and yet ruthlessly (because apparently that's just how he did things these days) attacked his occlumency shields.

Either way, it worked. Draco did excellent work, of course, and concocted a potion that brought the colour back into his face and prevented him from slipping into slumber during the daytime; classes continued as always and he went on fooling the entire Hogwarts population into believing that he wasn't slowly dying on the inside.

Which he clearly was.

In the meantime, though, he began to feel worse and worse. He had energy for the hours following his consumption of Draco's potion but even then he just felt...disgusting. He kept on doing his homework assignments, practising spells, duelling, attempting animagus transformations – he was sprouting feathers with ease now – and doing extracurricular research, but he just felt miserable the whole time, and this fact was getting harder and harder to mask. Nothing felt worthwhile or interesting or fun – they were just obligations, to his friends, to Tom, to himself...

Suffice it to say, by the time the first task of the Triwizard Tournament rolled around, he was even less inclined to attend than he had been after his name came out of the Goblet, if that was possible, and resolved to remain in the Slytherin Common Room to read, with the only other person who seemed to be as put off by the tournament as he was: Jordan Avery.

So that was how Harry found himself distracted from his History of Magic textbook, staring at the fire in front of him on November the twenty-fourth, watching it flicker, feeling an uncanny level of tranquility. As he sat there silently, he didn't feel the need to look at Avery – he knew the other boy didn't care either way, and was just as happy to keep his eyes fixated on the shimmering hearth.

"Is this what it's like when everyone goes off to watch the quidditch matches?" Harry asked idly after about a half hour had passed.

"What makes you think I know what it's like in the Common Room during quidditch matches?" Avery returned dully.

Harry smiled at the other boy's skepticism. "You never come to the games. You must have remained in the Common Room at least once."

"You noticed that?"

"I notice lots of things."

"Evidently."

They fell into silence once again, but Harry didn't feel the need to fidget – he was quite content to remain still as he slouched in the green velvet couch they were sitting on...more content than he had felt in weeks, in fact.

He read a few more paragraphs before curiosity got the better of him once again.

"Do you like it here at Hogwarts?"

A pause. "No."

"Is it because you miss your family?"

"No." There was no hesitation that time.

"Then where would you rather be?" Harry asked curiously.

"Nowhere. I don't want to be anywhere."

"Because you don't belong anywhere," Harry tried.

"That's right."

They were silent again.

"You don't have any friends," Harry pointed out suddenly.

"Your observational skills are astounding."

Harry stifled a laugh. "Do you ever get lonely?"

"No."

"I don't like it when people lie to me," Harry said lowly, finding himself oddly...upset by the fact that the other boy so blatantly tried to deceive him.

There was a long pause, and Harry wondered why such a stilted and awkward conversation was holding his attention so thoroughly.

"...yes. I get lonely sometimes."

"Me too," Harry admitted, hoping he sounded sympathetic.

"You have friends," Avery said incredulously. "Lots of them."

"Your observational skills are astounding."

Avery didn't laugh. "People with friends aren't supposed to be lonely. That's why you put up with them in the first place."

Harry nodded slowly. "My friends don't make me less lonely," he admitted, "Sometimes I'm loneliest when I'm with them."

Avery seemed to think this over. "That doesn't make any sense."

"I suppose it wouldn't."

A pause. "Then explain it."

Harry bit his lip, not having expected the request, despite the ambiguity of his statement. "Things...aren't simple for me. They're not easy. They never have been. Some people expect me to do and be certain things, and other people expect other things. Completely different things. I can't be everything I need to be at the same time, so I have to switch, sometimes. I have to tell a truth that's also a lie, and hide behind whatever I have to put between me and them. And it's not until all the people go away that I can bring down the walls, and that's always a relief, because being behind all those walls is lonely, and it makes you wonder if you're even really part of the world at all. If it's just you. Or maybe not...maybe you, whatever _you_ are, doesn't really exist at all."

Avery was silent for a long moment. "That sounds...horrible."

"It can be."

Avery scoffed. "It's easier to just be alone. To not care. To not try." His voice was bitter.

"That's you then?"

"Yeah."

Harry nodded slowly. "I don't have that option, though. I never have."

"Why not? All you have to do is stop talking."

Harry smiled wryly. "I need people, for...things. I can't do what I have to do, be what I have to be, alone. I'm not allowed to give up."

Avery snorted. "Ambition, huh?"

"It's what gets me out of bed in the morning."

"I hate getting out of bed. I wish I could sleep forever."

Had someone else said that, Harry would have laughed at their laziness, but somehow, Avery's declaration was far more morbid...more...familiar. "I've felt like that before," he said reminiscently.

"And it went away?" There was genuine curiosity in Avery's voice.

"It wasn't given a choice."

"Because people won't let you sleep."

"That's right," Harry said quietly.

"It's easier without people. Without friends," Avery repeated.

"Yes...but even if I didn't have any...I'm never alone."

He heard Avery suck in a sharp breath. "Do you hear them too?" he whispered.

Harry frowned. "Hear who?"

"The people...in your head."

For a moment, Harry was overcome by panic, and he was milliseconds away from drawing his wand and cursing the other boy unconscious so he could drag him down to the Chamber and interrogate him...but then he realized that Avery wasn't talking about him. He was talking about himself.

There were people...inside his head.

Was Avery a horcrux? Almost certainly not – no one would willingly make a human horcrux, and the chance that there was another accidental human horcrux out there was incredibly minuscule.

No, Avery was talking about something else. He was talking about other people living inside his head – not real people, not like Tom...

He was talking about insanity.

And wasn't that interesting...Harry'd never met an insane person before. Tom was clearly a psychopath, but he honestly doubted that that was true insanity. Maybe a personality disorder - but not insanity; insanity was something entirely different, something more...invasive, consuming.

"I do," he confirmed, because it wasn't a lie. He did hear a voice inside his head, and right now it wasn't exactly happy with him. He didn't really care, though...there was something very odd and disturbingly inexplicable drawing him to the other boy.

"Oh."

The conversation fell away, and Harry found himself both relieved and disappointed. He wanted to know what Avery's voices told him, who they sounded like, what they wanted from him.

They were silent once again, and this time the silence stretched out sluggishly, minutes turning into an hour before they knew it.

"Do you know why they did it?" Avery asked suddenly.

Harry blinked. "Know why who did what?"

He heard Avery chuckle slightly at the awkward question, but then he fell silent, and hesitated. "The muggles."

Harry froze, finding himself not furious, not uneasy, but bewildered. For some reason the question didn't bother him as much as it should have. It seemed so much more...innocent than it did when others had asked the same thing.

"I could make excuses for them," Harry said slowly, "I could tell you they were afraid -"

"Like you did in the Daily Prophet."

Harry nodded, though he knew Avery didn't see him do it.

"But that's not really it. They did it because they're weak, and ordinary...in the worst kind of way."

"Do you really think that's enough?"

"I think there are three kinds of people who hurt other people. There are people who hurt others because they want something, and there are people who hurt others because they enjoy it. My... _muggles_ didn't want anything from me, and they didn't enjoy hurting me. They fall into the last category."

"And that is...?"

"The weak, ordinary people who can't stand to be what they are. The people who are worthless and looking for worth. The people who lash out without really knowing why. The people who lack power and control, not because they're unfortunate or oppressed, but because it just isn't in them. They're vermin, pests, worthless creatures; they're _mistakes_ , and they should just disappear." His voice was cold, as he spoke, and he wondered if it was him speaking at all. It was devoid of feeling or malice - but surely he felt _something_. He hated the Dursleys...didn't he?

Avery was silent for a moment. "Do you really believe that?"

"I've seen enough evidence."

"You shouldn't let people hear you talk like that."

"I know...hence the walls."

Avery fell silent.

"It's easier to be less selective in your hatred," he said finally, "Then you don't get labelled as..."

"Like you then?" Harry interjected, not really wanting to hear what Avery thought he should be labelled as.

"I suppose."

"If you hate people so much, why are you tolerating me? You could just tell me to go to the library, and I'd do it."

"I don't hate people. I hate happy people."

"...and?"

"And you're not as happy as you pretend to be."

They exchanged no more words, after that; their eyes remained fixed on the crackling fire, caught up in the silence of the room, barely noticing when it was once again filled to the brim with chatter.

* * *

"Good morning!"

 _Reduce the volume of your voice_ , Tom demanded irritably.

Everyone at the Slytherin table stared at Harry uneasily, no doubt unnerved by his cheerful greeting.

He'd only just woken up from his meagre forty-five minutes of sleep and he felt positively _fantastic_. Phenomenal. Awe-inspiringly, astoundingly awesome.

"It's a beautiful day, don't you think?"

 _No, it is not, you imbecile, look around you._

Everyone glanced up at the swirling ceiling above, which was tumultuous and grey. A crack of thunder sounded.

"It's monstrous," Tracey said flatly.

"I know!" Harry chirped, flopping down into his seat and beginning to shovel strawberries onto his plate.

"Are you...feeling alright, mate?" Theo asked cautiously.

"I'm salubrious!"

"Salu- what?"

"I haven't felt better in...ever!" Harry explained happily, absently noticing how, in the corner of his eye, Draco was starting to look quite concerned.

 _I can definitively say that that is not true. There is something wrong. We need to retreat to the Room of Requirement or the Chamber immediately._

Harry ignored him.

"So you...slept through the night, last night, I take it?" Theo asked hopefully.

"Nope!" Harry said, popping the 'p'.

 _A lie would have been prudent, you foolish boy._

"...right."

The day continued in that vein; lots of strange looks, most of them leaning towards bewildered or concerned. Harry couldn't bring himself to care, what with feeling so superbly excellent...except when his friends' behaviour became annoying. Hermione insisted on performing the sobriety-testing spell on him once or twice, and Theo repeatedly tested him for a fever; Draco dragged him aside to ask him if he'd taken any other potions in conjunction with the one he had been making one; he hadn't, in fact – he actually hadn't taken Draco's potion in a couple of days now; concern over possible side-effects had gotten the better of him.

The most irritating, however, was Tom. He kept bothering him about how he was _apparently_ acting like an idiot, and how there was something wrong, and he needed to go isolate himself until they could figure it out. Honestly, if he weren't in such a good mood, he would have been hurt – Tom could feel how excellent he felt (which didn't happen often at all, especially these days) and was actively trying to ruin it for him. Extremely un-friend-like behaviour if Harry had ever seen any.

Still, he didn't let it discourage him – if Tom wanted to be a block of mouldy cheese, as the Weasley twins might say, let him – because felt cleverer, happier, and quicker than he had felt in weeks. He felt alive – better even...though he wasn't exactly sure what better than alive would look like.

Classes passed in the blink of an eye – in all honesty, by the end of the day, Harry barely remembered what had happened in them at all, or whether he'd even attended – and seemingly within minutes of waking up, it was nearly twilight, and he was challenging Viktor Krum to a competition of the quidditch variety.

* * *

"I really need to work on my snitch-catching skills," Harry mused as he flipped through _Magicks of the Sowle_ with a big grin on his face. He _was_ reading – he just wasn't remembering any of it.

 _Or you could spend your apparently bountiful energy on something remotely useful,_ Tom grouched, apparently still sore over the fact that Harry had pulled off what Viktor had assured him was a frighteningly risky Wronski Feint.

Harry'd never been so proud in his life.

"Snitch catching is very useful," he retorted.

 _Oh yes, of courses it is_ , Tom said sourly, _How could I have ever mistaken riding a broom around in the air looking for a little golden ball for something useless and futile?_

"No idea, but you should probably think more before you say something so thoughtless, next time," Harry said cheekily, laughing when he felt a sharp pain in his forehead.

 _You are insufferable._

"You can just tell me how much you love me, Tom – I won't see you blush."

The pain didn't go away, and Harry kept laughing.

Once the laughter (and pain) finally subsided, he lay back in his bed, a dreamy look on his face. "I love flying."

 _Do you? I had no idea_ , Tom said wryly.

Harry nodded avidly. "Few things make me happier, you know? Being hundreds of feet off the ground, surrounded only by air – free of boundaries and walls." He lifted his hand in front of his face and watched with satisfaction as feathers started to appear. "I wonder...if perhaps when we die, we become birds. If our souls find a home in flight and freedom...in a simple life of surviving and soaring through the air. That might not be so bad, don't you think?"

 _No, not bad – unbearably dreadful._

"Hmm...perhaps. I think it would be...perfect, though. I guess I have no way of knowing..." He paused. "Except I do." A grin lit Harry's face all of a sudden, and he leapt out of bed, summoning his invisibility cloak to his hands and darting out the door as he threw it over himself.

 _What are you doing_? Tom asked warily.

"I just had a _brilliant_ idea," Harry gasped as he fled through the entrance to the Slytherin common room.

He sped through corridors and up stairways, adrenaline pumping with such ferocity that he didn't bother to mask his footsteps at all.

His breaths were hoarse by the time he reached the top of the Astronomy Tower, and he doubled over gasping for breath.

 _Why are we here?_ Tom asked, dread seasoning his voice.

The grin was back on his face. "You can fly, right? Without a broom."

 _...yes._

"So if you took over my body, we could fly."

 _I could, but I refuse to expend such massive amounts of energy to indulge your whims_.

"What about to save our life?" Harry asked with a smirk. "You should give me a few seconds, first, though."

 _What are you planning_? Tom asked in alarm.

"Do or do not, there is no try," Harry said giddily. "I should have done this weeks ago."

 _Harry don't you dare -_

But Harry barely heard him and the pain in his head seemed to vanish, as he took off across the tower, hurtling the railing in one leap, throwing himself off the edge with a gleeful grin on his face.

For a split second he felt both consuming fear and reckless awe – this was it; this could be the very end. Once, twice, three times his heart pounded and he felt a sickening rush and a flood of panic when he imagined a great, empty blackness before him - but a moment later that dread was replaced by determination. He slipped into a meditative state, drowning out Tom's hysterical voice and the fear and the excitement – and a moment later he was soaring.

Suddenly, the world around him was brighter, the shapes sharper and the colours, while dark, were vivid in front of his eyes. Cold December air enveloped him, and though he was shielded by a layer of something soft and feathery, he could feel ghosts of winter breath leaking through his feathery armour and brushing his skin. He opened his mouth to let out a shout of victory, but instead he heard the unmistakable call of an owl, and that's when it completely set in. He was an owl. He was an _owl_.

He had finally done it!

He soared higher and higher, dipping in and out of clouds and circling and gliding and diving, letting out the occasional thrilled hoot. He traversed the Black Lake, revelling in his reflection – a dark grey owl, not yet full grown, with bright yellow eyes, flecked with striking emerald green – before he picked up speed again with rapid flaps of his wings, zooming toward the forbidden forest.

Soon, dark green shapes dotted the ground below him, and he dived down closer to the tree tops; before long, however, he found himself growing weary and decided a rest was in order, so he glided down, weaving his way through the canopy, coming to rest on a small mound on the forest floor. A moment later, he had transformed into a human, and collapsed on the forest floor, shaking with mirth.

He could hear Tom again -

 _\- you worthless, brainless imbecile, even at the height of the Astronomy Tower it would have been a mere six seconds before -_

\- but he couldn't bring himself to care. He couldn't bring himself to care about anything, really – his mind was buzzing, pulsing, and all he could feel was pure...well, it must have been joy. It penetrated his entire being forcing laughter to course through him like a seizure. He couldn't stop it.

The colours were bright around him, and the sounds of the night were pounding in his ears. He couldn't stop it. He couldn't take it all in. It was like his brain was being filled up, until – until -

...

 _of all the grievously foolish - Harry?_

 _..._

 _Harry?_

 _..._

 _Answer me, you foolish boy._

 _..._

* * *

Upon a frost-covered mound of fallen leaves, deep in the Forbidden Forest, a young boy in rumpled Hogwarts robes slowly rose to his feet, an incredibly disgruntled look written very clearly upon his face. He took a moment to glare up at the sky, crimson eyes glinting in the waning moonlight, before he drew his wand and pointed it at his face, muttering, _"Pigmentum mutatio."_

Pain jolted up his arm and his eyes burned, but sure enough, they transformed to a bright, jewel-like emerald, and he pocketed the wand once more, taking a deep breath and resigning himself to the tedium, exasperation, and physical discomfort the next few days would likely bring.

"If you can hear me, Harry, you should be aware that the longer you sleep, the more likely it is that I will torture and murder everyone you know and love. Just thought you should know."

And with that, he began the long trudge back to Hogwarts castle, cursing under his breath as December frost snapped at his shoeless feet.

* * *

Yes, there is something very, very wrong with Harry, poor guy; he needs a bit of a rest. So guess whose POV next chapter is in ;)


	11. Also Known As

**Disclaimer:** this chapter could be...fun to own. Not that that matters, because it's never going to happen.

 **AN (on sleep deprivation - kind of important, if you were confused):** So, there were many people who were rather puzzled and surprised by the effects sleep deprivation had on Harry; I wanted to take a moment to demystify this whole thing, because it's not really supposed to be especially confusing or strange. So I'm going to provide a little bit of story context first to make sure we're all on the same page, and then I'm going to jump into an explanation of the neurological effects of REM sleep deprivation on people with certain psychopathologies.

Alright, so...Harry isn't exactly _sane._ That's pretty obvious at this point, but it might not be entirely obvious what this means. It's clear that a lot is going on, but let me just simplify things and say that Harry has two problems he deals with. The first is obvious; the first part of his childhood was spent under the guardianship of the Dursleys (enough said), and the second part under the pseudo-guardianship of a brilliant psychopath with nothing better to do than manipulate and mess with him. That alone has done a number on his psyche; however, we're also aware that his mother did _something_ which messed with his soul, and is as a result manifesting as some form of mental instability. To try to capture how I think this might end up actually affecting Harry's daily life, I've been using the behaviour of a child with a mood disorder to base some of his more extreme behaviours off of; if you look up some of the symptoms of depression, mixed episodes, hypomania, and mania, you should see some parallels.

Now, what does sleep deprivation have to do with this? A lot, actually. Some scientists believe that REM sleep deprivation could actually be a _treatment_ for Major Depressive Disorder, because the effect it has on the brain mimics that of SSRIs (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors), one of the go-to classes of antidepressant drugs currently used by doctors. However, even though these drugs tend to be quite effective for treating MDD, they can also contribute to _diagnosing_ bipolar disorder. SSRIs probably work by limiting how much serotonin is quickly reabsorbed into the brain, so there's more available to be absorbed by various receptors...and I could start talking about which receptors and what they are believed to do and how overactivity of certain receptors is prevalent in patients suffering from mania...but besides being slightly irrelevant, unfortunately a lot of this information is shaky at best, and doctors honestly don't know much about what causes depression and mania, and why certain drugs treat them. The entire industry surrounding medical and pharmaceutical research is kind of...

Yeah, anyway, that's not the point. The only thing we really _know_ is that sleep deprivation disrupts mood, and in certain people prone to it, these disruptions can instigate a full blown manic state.

So here's the point: mania usually manifests in extremely opulent and risky behaviour, extreme irritation or euphoria, racing thoughts and distractability, failure to consider consequences of actions, or psychosis (experiencing hallucinations or delusions). This isn't what most people think of if they hear the term 'high mood', because there's nothing positive about mania: it's often extremely frightening, and people have ended up in prison or serious debt, addicted to drugs, harming (physically or emotionally) family or friends, or causing severe harm to themselves - in extreme cases, death. It's a very serious condition...and sometimes all it takes is a couple of sleepless nights to bring it on, for a person with BPI. And Harry...well, it's been a few weeks of very poor sleeping conditions now.

Anyway...I want to reiterate that I'm not saying that Harry actually _has_ a mood disorder; I'm saying that I'm working with the assumption that some of his mother's experiments (which will be elaborated on further very soon), messed with his brain enough to make him susceptible to symptoms similar to those seen in some mood disorders. Which means there might also be a cure out there ;)

* * *

 **Chapter 11: Harry Potter – a.k.a., Lord Voldemort**

If there was a conscious personification of Irony, he had once grievously offended her – of this he was certain.

Due to his idiotic host's, well, idiocy, he now had unfettered access and uncontested control of a young, healthy body, filled to the brim with powerful magic. He had the entirety of the Black Family fortune at his fingertips, and was beloved by the Wizarding World as the 'Boy Who Lived'. Unfortunately, said young and healthy body was currently falling apart due to sleep deprivation (what effect accessing said body through a brain with poor memory and quickly deteriorating attention span would have on his superb intellect he did not know...nor was he eager to find out), said magic was excruciatingly painful for him to use, and his access to money and fame – and freedom – depended on his ability to imitate a mentally unstable fourteen-year-old.

(At least he was better off than the other pieces of his soul...but that was hardly reassuring at this point. At this point he was resolved to no longer contemplate how fantastically the whole horcrux plan had gone awry; he was well aware of the limited success of his daring experiment. Although, it was a minor setback, all things said and done - he was still immortal. It was more than most people could say.)

 _Mental instability_. It was a euphemism, to say the least. Harry Potter was insane. But it was a curious insanity. It wasn't a disorder of personality - what lesser, ordinary men accuse the extraordinary and fascinating of being afflicted by - and it was not an intellectual deficiency. He was more _interesting_ than that. More...unpredictable, undefinable. And that would be his salvation, no doubt. Because while Harry's states of mind were very easy to unravel and twist and knot and sever if one knew which strings to pull, even the most skillful, successful manipulations could have unforeseen consequences; too many things were tangled together, and even he could not always see where all the threads started and ended. And the boy, when left to his own devices...

He would play the part of Harry Potter, and he would have limited success; his skill as an actor was limited, he was very well aware of that. The role of _Tom Riddle,_ school prefect, Head Boy, had taken him years to practice and perfect; his acting had been impeccable, but it had taken time to adjust, and that had been to his advantage, as the transformation occurred under the guise of adolescent development and 'flourishing in a positive environment'. But such impeccability was not required, here - now, he would not have to consistently mimic Harry's behaviour; because even Harry could not do that. He would be _odd,_ but _odd_ was to be expected. After the boy's social awkwardness of his first year, his dramatic change in heart regarding Draco Malfoy in his second, his _tragic_ confession in his third year (together with the furious outburst and paradoxically elegant damage control), and his most recent set of...escapades, he was hardly expected to behave predictably.

Not to say that there were not behavioural restrictions...and these could prove to be...inconvenient. However, the fact remained that Harry Potter was currently catatonic while his body made the long trudge back to Hogwarts castle in the greyish morning light, under the command of Lord Voldemort. And how long this command would be necessary was unclear. He could not reach Harry's consciousness – he had been trying for the last hour, but to no avail – and he had no idea how to go about awakening the lazy boy, much to his displeasure. So, until further notice, Lord Voldemort would play the part of Harry Potter, and keep his followers, the adoring public, his professors, and the meddling old fool at bay.

This would doubtless prove exhausting on many levels.

By the time a hazy golden light was spilling over the eastern horizon, he was approaching the front gates of Hogwarts, which, to his surprise, opened for him, disturbing him from his musings – revealing a moment later on the other side a very unimpressed-looking Minerva McGonagall.

Ah, dear Minnie McGonagall. She had certainly aged well; it was as though she grew more imposing with every passing year.

"Mr. Potter," she began curtly, "Where have you been at this hour?"

"Merely enjoying a morning stroll," he replied pleasantly, suddenly aware of the very slight weight on the right side of his head, which most likely indicated that there was a twig stuck in his hair.

She raised an eyebrow, looking somewhat irate. "A _morning stroll_?"

Voldemort flattered her with a winning smile. "Yes, of course, professor. You really ought to try it – it does wonders to clear one's head."

"My head is quite clear enough, Mr. Potter."

"Of course," Voldemort demurred, staring to feel impatient; it was then that he was suddenly reminded of one of the...coping mechanisms of his youth, and attempted to quell his growing irritation by absently wondering what the austere woman would do if he tried (and succeeded, of course) to curse her out of nowhere with something positively dreadful.

"Very well, then, clean yourself up and prepare for classes," she commanded curtly, oblivious to the fact that her gruesome death was being envisioned.

"Yes, professor."

Voldemort scowled unhappily as he walked away. It had been years since anyone had told him what to do...and he could say with certainty that he didn't miss it.

Finding the nearest bathroom, he cleaned and repaired his robes with a sweeping wave of his hand - and then turned his attention to his hair; rather, the twig and leaf-infested, tangled mess on the top of his head.

In the 10 minutes that followed he made a discovery - at the expense of only a small amount of emotional expenditure and some broken mirrors - which, now that he thought of it, explained some mildly puzzling facts that had popped up peripherally throughout his lifetime. Just as there were magical genetic mutations that had convenient consequences, such as the gene that caused metamorphmagism, there were inconvenient ones as well; the Potter line, apparently carried a magical recessive gene that caused what several of his classmates had referred to as 'Potter hair syndrome'. As was such, Harry's disobedient mop of hair was resistant to most potions and spells - which they already knew - but with this newfound realization, he was able to construct a rather complex, makeshift spell-like _thing_ that successfully made the boy's hair _finally_ lie flat. It took the better part of an hour, but even he required some time in putting together a (incredibly painful) magical procedure to mitigate the effects of a hitherto untreated physio-magical condition.

It was after he had achieved success that he realized that it was completely futile; until he could guarantee that Harry himself could perform the spell (after a few more moments of refining the wand movements he was more comfortable with the term _spell)_ , he could not very well cast it himself.

 _"Finite incantatum_ ," he muttered venomously, marching out of the bathroom and toward the Great Hall.

Upon arrival, he made sure to occupy Harry's usual seat at the Slytherin table, not the one he had previously held. Truth be told, it annoyed him to no end that Harry deliberately insisted on sitting in a different place than he had. It was incredibly jarring.

He took his time in breaking his fast - his long, thirteen year fast - seeing as only a few students had yet ambled into the Great Hall, none of those who Harry habitually greeted in the morning being present; but even after he had meticulously partitioned his toast, eggs, and sausages into perfect squares and devoured them all sequentially, only a few of his housemates had shown up, and that was when he deduced that even Harry would not bother waiting for the catalysts of his morning routine at that point, because they were even more undisciplined than he was when it came to rising at a decent hour. The incredible amounts of time that these adolescents wasted by oversleeping was truly atrocious.

Either way, the Hogwarts library awaited him.

When he arrived, he was displeased to find that he was at a loss as to what to read; he had already perused most of the even remotely fascinating books in the Hogwarts library, between Harry's three and a half years at Hogwarts and his seven; which left the option of sneaking into the Restricted Section, which had received more fascinating additions of late (it seemed that while donations to the main library were relatively scarce, donations to the restricted section had increased in frequency and volume, and _that_ certainly had interesting implications)...without Harry's invisibility cloak, which was probably still lying somewhere on the astronomy tower - it _would_ need to be retrieved at some point, but that was what house elves were for - which meant casting a thorough disillusionment charm, which meant considerable pain.

He sighed dramatically. "What did I do to deserve this?"

He smirked. "Oh, yes, of course."

He flicked his wrist, and a moment later he was invisible; after that, slipping into the Restricted Section was child's play – as evidenced by Harry's ability to do so repeatedly in his first year.

Not to imply that Harry's skills were on par with that of the average child, however.

The boy had...not turned out to be a disappointment. Even though his psychological irregularities had proven to be inconvenient of late, he remained convinced that the path he had chosen was correct; Harry Potter would be a valuable ally, in the end. While not a genius, he had proven to be exceptionally adaptable, and this adaptability was what had allowed the combination between the boy's considerable potential and his exceptional guidance to transform into skill and magical power unrivalled by any of his peers. He still had a very long way to go, as there was a drastic difference between being superior to a group of adolescents and being objectively superior, but they were...not behind schedule. And as long as he gave Harry reason to believe that he was in peril and could rely on no one to save him, that adapting to more complex and more daunting challenges was crucial to their survival, he would continue to adapt fluidly.

He smiled slightly as his fingers traced the shelves of books on magical theory which he and Harry had so diligently combed through. Who would have thought that the horcrux he never meant to make would become his favourite? The boy was sentimental, unstable, moral, and rash...but his dedication and loyalty were unrivalled, and coupled with the fact that he had put massive amounts of time and effort into moulding the boy – trimming here, melting there, chiselling this and that, fortifying here and there; skillfully sculpting and crafting to...well, not perfection, but he was getting there – he was simply irreplaceable at this point. Harry Potter would forever be the most valuable thing that had ever belonged to him; an heir in all but blood. And his masterpiece.

Well, perhaps not a _masterpiece._ Not yet, anyway. But magnum opus, surely.

He plucked _Über den Geist_ from the shelf, eyebrow twitching when he recalled the nigh sleepless nights he and Harry had endured in the pursuit of understanding it (which had unfortunately not prepared them for recent events at all). If he had a kind bone in his body, he would have pitied the boy, perhaps regretting having inflicted so much pain in hopes of eliciting better performance (and, well...he _had_ been rather annoyed), but, as it were, he did not. On the other hand, he felt no pleasure or amusement in recalling his actions. Prior merging with the diary, he had lost interest years back in tormenting his helpless host – it was simply convenient – and while the influence of his younger self had inflamed some of his sadistic tendencies, inflicting pain upon Harry had once again become merely...routine. He wasn't about to reign in his emotions for his host's sake, and much like a well-trained pet, while Harry no longer cowered in the face of immense pain, he knew exactly how to behave in the presence of it; it had been a fascinating thing, to observe how the regular and well placed application of pain could affect a child - the boy seemed to have little psychological aversion to pain, at this point, but would nevertheless cater to his wishes in order to avoid it. It was far different from afflicting agony on an adult; it was a strange synthesis of acceptance of pain as an element of reality and understanding its purpose in that reality as a catalyst. And Harry embodied it perfectly.

Yes, he had certainly done an excellent job. His only true failing had been the Lockhart incident - and that was entirely the doing of the then unmerged fragments of his sixteen year old self, who seemed to think that deliberately placing in peril their host's tenuous mental stability was an appropriate risk given the opportunity to probe just how thoroughly he could saturate the boy's mind without forcibly taking absolute control, and simultaneously confirming just how fragile the boy's sense of self was - but even he was entitled to a mistake or two.

Who knew that Lord Voldemort could successfully raise a child? Apparently he could add parenting to his set of well-developed and virtually unrivaled skills. Now he simply had to ensure that Harry never made it through the final phase of childhood, so that he would not have to suffer the fate of every parent – to be surpassed by their child, if only in spirit. Harry would never be allowed to leave him; he would not create a body of his own until he was able to ensure that.

He flipped through the pages of the German text idly, stopping when he came to the section of the book that had, unbeknownst to Harry, proven useful. What at first observation had appeared to be an obscure, cryptic block of difficult-to-translate German text was, in fact, a spell – a spell to make a permanent connection between two minds. A legillimency bridge, you might say. If carefully extrapolated on...perhaps two magical cores, or even souls could be bound as well.

In fact, now that Harry was temporarily 'out of the picture', so to speak, it was truly an ideal time to study the structure of the passage more thoroughly; a quick glance had been enough to formulate the conceptual framework of the ritual he wished to devise, but seeing as he did not have the luxury of performing physical experiments while locked inside Harry's mind, more time with the original text would increase the accuracy of his simulations. He could afford no errors, after all, and the variables were many and complex.

He wasn't particularly aware of the passage of time until it suddenly occurred to him to glance at Harry's watch, finding, much to his annoyance, that it read _8:55 -_ time to head to...what was it...ah, yes, History of Magic. His _favourite_ class. No, really it was – it was the class that he was sure would eventually inspire him to adapt the Christian practice of exorcisim to a magical setting. Sure, he could use a simple spirit-expelling charm to divest the school of what was, until the commencement of the traitor's employment contract, Hogwarts's most hated professor...but he doubted those guaranteed an eternity of torment for the expelled spirit, which was what he was really aiming for at this point.

After all, he had never condemned another creature to an eternity of torment before...except multiple fragments of himself, that is. But it was for a good cause.

When he reached the classroom, he quickly located Theodore Nott, just as Harry would have, and sat down beside him.

Nott Jr. glanced at him, looking concerned. "Why weren't you at breakfast?" he scolded.

Voldemort bit back a sharp rebuke at the boy's rebuking tone. Nott had proven to be skilled, useful, and loyal, yes, but Harry, the foolish boy, gave him far to much liberty. Even the inquisitive mudblood was reluctant to question his host when it came to non-intellectual matters – no, there was something...unique about Nott's feeling's toward his host. They were unnaturally protective – possessive, even – given their context...prompting to believe that Nott's dedication to his host was not entirely dissimilar to Severus's dedication to Lily Potter.

Something that, if dealt with correctly, might actually prove to be more advantageous than inconvenient.

"I rose early, and ate breakfast before going to the library," he said curtly.

Nott blinked. "You...ate breakfast. On your own. Without me reminding you."

"Yes," Voldemort said, annoyed. "I know how to eat breakfast, Theo."

That was crucial, to carefully maintain Harry's nomenclature for the human beings in his life. Nott = Theo, Malfoy = Draco, mudblood = Hermione...

"Could have fooled me."

Voldemort fought down the urge to _crucio_ the impudent boy, and settled on ignoring him.

"You seem...better."

"An eight-hour period of uninterrupted sleep can do wonders for one's state of mind."

Nott nodded doubtfully. "You seem better...but you don't seem _well_."

Voldemort resisted glaring at the boy. "If I want a running commentary on how I _seem,_ Theo, I will make sure to ask you. As it stands, however, I do not," he said calmly.

"Yeah, you're definitely not well. Maybe you should go see Madame Pomfrey."

At this point, Voldemort was expending all his energy on not cursing the boy, but with great determination, he forced himself to smile gently in a very Harry-esque fashion. "Really, I'm fine, Theo." His smile turned sheepish and he shrugged a little. "I suppose that getting enough sleep for a change has made it apparent to me just how tired I am. I'm just a little worn out, is all – you don't have to worry. A few more nights of decent sleep and I'll be completely back to normal."

Nott seemed to relax at his words, which meant that his acting was indeed impeccable, when he expended the effort. Perhaps feigning good behaviour was like learning to ride a bicycle - you never really forget it.

"Right, of course – I'm just worried."

"Oh, is that so? I had _no_ idea."

Nott chuckled, just as Binns floated into the classroom, and wasted no time in droning on about...something. He honestly stopped paying attention as soon as the ghost opened his mouth, and turned his thoughts to how he was going to survive the next twelve hours; because while odd behaviour was acceptable, departures from certain very specific behavioural restrictions was unacceptable. History of Magic would be followed by Defence against the Dark Arts, which would be followed by Potions; in other words, he could afford no slip ups, as he would be in the presence of the two people in the school whom he would most like to kill, and would most like to kill him...with the exception of Dumbledore, of course. But with any luck, he would be able to avoid the old coot entirely.

But that was not the end of it; if those two classes weren't treacherous enough, a meeting of Harry's Order would follow. Until 9 pm at the earliest, he was required to look like Harry, talk like Harry, act like Harry...and he could not, under any circumstances, curse anyone. Or threaten anyone with death or torture. _Or_ , least of all, use the word _mudblood._ It only then occurred to him just what a significant portion of his life had been dedicated to doing those three things.

By the time Binns had finally shut his blithering, decrepit mouth, he had pieced together something of an algorithm for how to deal with potentially treacherous conditions. It was quite complicated (far too involved for anyone else to follow), but could in general be summed up as: 'smile politely at everyone' and 'pretend that the foolish ramblings of others are remotely interesting and/or relevant', and 'do not resort to violence on any level unless it seems justifiable by means of adolescent drama or extreme pseudo-moral conviction'. After all, that described Harry's more irritating behaviours quite well: too universally pleasant and too fixated on others, prone to explosive anger at the most inappropriate times; that is, the opposite of an unpleasant, selfish narcissist whose anger was always appropriate if not expected. He was very well aware of what he was, just as he was aware that his 'faults' were made completely negligible by the sheer number and potency of his many redeeming qualities.

"Did you catch any of that?" Nott asked with a yawn as they exited the History classroom.

Voldemort quickly calculated how many History lessons they had attended in fourth year thus far.

"In 1705 there were rumours of dissatisfaction and discord growing amidst the goblin communities of Manchester and Liverpool, and combined with certain social movements in Austria and Switzerland at the time, the conditions were ripe for a third Goblin Rebellion. It was through the clever diplomatic machinations of then Minister of Magic, Richard Arlington, that peace, though tenuous, was maintained."

"You were actually paying attention!" he heard the mudblood exclaim behind him.

He slowly looked over his shoulder – absently noticing the look of wonder on Nott's face – and smirked lazily. "Not at all. I was merely guessing; sheer dumb luck, you might say."

She huffed in annoyance, before looking at him shrewdly. "You seem...better."

He glanced over at her again, unimpressed. "Yes, Theo was just informing me of this fortuitous fact. He used those exact words, in fact. Obviously, creativity is a crucial criterion in my selection of friends." Harry had grown more sarcastic of late, given Black's influence.

But perhaps he had taken it to far, because she bristled. "We were just worried, Harry!" Her voice dropped to a whisper, "You weren't acting...normal, yesterday."

"Sleep deprivation can do that," he commented curtly. "Throughout history it has been used as an...unconventional interrogation tactic, and this is not without reason."

"But why were you deprived of sleep in the first place?"

Nott and Malfoy, who had joined them at some point, seemed quite interested to hear his answer as well.

"It doesn't matter," he said simply. "What matters is that the problem is solved, and you no longer have to worry." He narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sure why you insist on worrying about me in the first place – I think I've proven myself capable of taking care of myself," he added, feeling an inexplicable urge to defend Harry.

"But you haven't, though," Nott cut in. "Hermione has to remind you of meal times when you do research together and I have to make sure you actually eat, and apparently sleeping is too much to ask these days too."

Voldemort ground his teeth, fingers twitching. None of his followers would have ever _dared_ speak to him like this. He didn't know whether to be furious with his host's immense capacity for patience and lenience, or impressed by it. True, he witnessed this insanity on a daily basis, but it was much easier to ignore it when he wasn't the one who had to actually _deal_ with it.

"Just because I don't resolve my problems with your methods, does not mean that I am incapable of solving them," he said evenly. "Have you ever considered that, in the past, outside of Hogwarts, it was unfeasible for me to sustain a typical routine of eating during the day and sleeping at night?"

Malfoy frowned. "Why would -"

Nott elbowed him in the abdomen, and he seemed to realize what he had been asking, and they all fell silent after that.

Finally.

When they entered the Defence classroom a hush fell over the students, and he almost let himself relax for a moment, due to the absence of noise, but the sound of Mad-Eye Moody hobbling into the room was enough to completely erase any semblance of pleasantry.

He kept his face perfectly still as he watched the man lumber to the head of the classroom, feeling a twinge of irritation at the fact that this brutish, paranoid, washed-up auror had taken _his_ job.

Just as well, he thought with a sudden swell of satisfaction – this pathetic shell of Mad-Eye Moody, which was really quite disappointing given his admittedly illustrious reputation, would meet an unfortunate end before the culmination of the coming term...they all did, he thought with an unavoidable twitch of his lips.

"Potter! What're you grinning about?" Moody suddenly barked from the front of the room.

Voldemort sat back in his chair, folding his hands on his lap and smirking at Moody with lazy smugness, unable to help himself. "Why, sir, I was just considering how pleased I am with your placement as our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. It just occurred to me how very beneficial this arrangement is."

Moody raised an eyebrow, before snorting and going back to his lecture.

Indeed, if Moody's inevitable termination was was especially... _terminal_ , one more prominent member of the Order of the Phoenix would be out of his way and one less obstacle would stand between he and Harry and their ultimate victory.

* * *

Lunch was a mostly eventless affair; after his subtle mention of Harry's unpleasant childhood managed to shut his rebellious followers up immediately, he deduced that acting sombre and contemplative would likely minimize their desire to make contact with him, perhaps suggesting that he was still affected by the traumatic memories they had _so cruelly unearthed_ , so he altered his algorithm, and said alteration was relatively successful. It took some adjustments, but he ultimately found that considering complex arithmancy problems that had been deemed unsolvable during potential conversations conveyed benign disinterest and dejection.

However, said pretense of benign disinterest became much more challenging to maintain once he entered the Potions classroom.

The potions laboratory held many...painful memories for him, most of them involving Horace Slughorn's sycophantic preening and nauseating, oblivious joviality, and, more recently, the traitor's pathetic bullying and Longbottom's unparalleled incompetence. _Nothing_ good ever happened in the potions laboratory – it likely had remained a room imbued with misfortune for the last fifty years; and not the kind of misfortune he revelled in – the kind of misfortune that made this incredibly dull and agonizing world seem all the greyer. Perhaps he should consider encouraging Harry to take steps to demolish it. A practical application of fiendfyre, perhaps? It was untraceable, after all.

Though, there was a very limited number of students at Hogwarts who had even a remote chance of being able to cast the curse...so the risk was still too high. Not to worry, though - Harry was adept with (if not partial to) many other methods of heavy-handed but nevertheless satisfying destruction.

The potion they were brewing that afternoon was an antidote for cobra venom; he knew the recipe by heart, of course, and completely awed Nott with his poise and expertise in brewing a perfect potion. Potions had never been _his_ subject, per se, but his skill was still unrivalled, and virtually every attempt he made was flawless.

In saying so he blatantly ignored the series of experiments he had instigated in 1951, which had, frankly, ended in tragedy. That was a dark time in his life – he didn't talk about it. Ever. If Harry ever acquired _those_ memories...well, let's just say he had an extensive collection of excuses and blatant lies at his disposal, which he would select from based on his mood at the time.

By the time he was bottling his and Nott's (well, really, his – he wasn't about to let Nott ruin his perfect grade) potion, he was quite ready to leave behind the dismal, odour-infused, viscous atmosphere of the potions classroom, before his attempt was quite rudely interrupted.

"Potter, stay behind."

Voldemort grit his – Harry's – teeth. He was _Lord Voldemort,_ the most feared wizard in recorded history. And people _kept telling him what to do_. He conjured an image of the traitor burning to death before his eyes, screaming wretchedly and begging for mercy. That was somewhat helpful, and he was able to plaster a very agreeable look on his face as he approached said traitor.

"Sir?" he said pleasantly.

"Your behaviour has been erratic, of late," the man said with incredible abruptness.

Voldemort's eyebrows rose. "Has it, sir?"

"Don't play coy with me Potter," the man snapped, "You know very well that you have been disobeying my orders – your visits to the Infirmary have grown sparse, and while I have been merciful due to your obvious physical improvement, your mental state is clearly deteriorating with alarming speed."

"Mental state?" Voldemort echoed with a slight edge in his voice, daring the man to elaborate.

"Yes, Potter, _mental state_. Whatever bizarre, narcissistic, irrational frame of mind has been causing you to alternate acting like an inferius and a chimpanzee."

 _Avada Kedavra –_ all he had to do was say those two words (preferably preceded by a couple of enunciations of _crucio_ ), and it would all be over. The traitor would never bother him again, and the old fool would lose one of his favourite pets. It would be so easy, too – the pathetically oblivious man would never see it coming, from his _dear_ Lily's son. So, so easy...

And yet, incredibly inconvenient in the long run. Not to mention, Harry would be very displeased, and would no doubt sulk for at least a few days after he awoke, which he would rather not have to deal with.

So instead, he plastered a grateful, eager look on his face, which, if one looked closely enough (which no one ever did), was hopelessly polluted by mocking. "Sir, I...I really can't say how much it means to me, that you're so concerned. I mean, a year ago, I thought you wanted me dead, or worse – expelled." He would never admit it, but it was when she made _that_ unintentional jest that he finally started to appreciate the mudblood's presence, at least somewhat. "And to think, that all this time, you cared _so much_ -"

"Potter," the man said warningly.

"You know, Sirius told me all about it," he said, very sympathetically, "About how he and my father treated you – it must be _so hard_ to look at me and not see their faces; to look past all that so readily, well, your nobility and strength of character is admirable, sir -"

"Get out, Potter," Severus hissed irritably. "Just – get out."

Voldemort pretended to look very disheartened, but still understanding. "I understand _completely_ , sir. But if you _ever_ need to talk about it -"

" _Out!"_

Sighing dramatically, Voldemort idly turned on his heel, taking his time in sauntering out of the classroom; but just as he did, he looked over his shoulder, an amused look on his face. "Perhaps it would be mutually beneficial for us both to mind our own business, _professor_."

The last thing he saw before he swept down the dungeon corridors was a look of uneasy shock on Severus Snape's face. Good. Perhaps the – what did Black call him again? Ah, yes – slimy (or was it greasy?) dungeon bat would think twice about pestering his host next time.

He might as well clean up some of the undesirable aspects of Harry's life while he had free reign of things, after all. It was a calculated risk; his behaviour could easily be reported to Dumbledore...but he was fairly certain that Severus, who had the pride of a Gryffindor, would be too ashamed to actually admit the incident ever occurred.

* * *

He was wrong. He blamed it on Harry's brain.

* * *

He had thought that maybe, just maybe, dinner would be a...respite, of sorts. A scrumptious meal (albeit polluted by the voices of Harry's talentless, imbecilic classmates) followed by a brief, and admittedly somewhat sentimental, stroll about the Hogwarts grounds, and then a quiet hour or so in the Chamber before he was once again required to play the part of Harry Potter. Or rather Harry Black, for the time being.

It didn't quite turn out that way, however. It was a curious thing – Fate was once kind to him, and Fortune used to follow in his every step. Lord Voldemort _always_ got what he wanted...until Harry Potter stepped into his life. Well, he supposed that _technically_ it was he who stepped into Harry's life, but the fact remained – Harry was clearly a source of what a philistine or muggle might call 'bad luck'. He preferred to refer to it as being despised by the universe for no apparent reason. Perhaps it was a punishment for his many sins. Or perhaps Harry was merely hated by some deity or greater force, and by extension, him as well.

Whatever it was, however, it inspired a certain delusional old codger in predictably garish pink robes to appear behind him just as he was starting to contemplate the omnipotence paradox while carving his serving of ham with finesse. He, of course, did what anyone in his position would do – ignore the blight on his evening while hoping that it would go away on its own.

Somehow, they never do.

"You know, Harry, you might try cutting them into different sized squares – I've always been quite partial to the Pythagorean tiling myself. Although, I do suppose you can't go wrong with a classic regular tesselation."

Voldemort took a silent but nonetheless shuddering breath, before placing his cutlery neatly beside his plate and turning around in his seat.

"Professor Dumbledore," he said politely, and hopefully not too frostily, "What brings you to these far reaches of the Great Hall?"

The old goat's eyebrows rose, and he knew he had failed at least somewhat. "Ah, well, Harry, I admit, I did come with a specific purpose in mind, though I am very fond of admiring the ceiling from different angles."

What an infuriating, imbecilic, incorrigible ...

"And what might your purpose be, sir?" Voldemort asked evenly.

"A chat, I think, is in order."

"A chat?" Voldemort echoed reluctantly, deliberately filtering all traces dread and loathing out of his voice, realizing the mistake he had made.

"Indeed, indeed. Nothing especially grim, I assure you."

Voldemort stared at him warily. "And when will this...'chat' take place, sir?"

"Why, Harry, there's no time like the present. After you finish your meal, of course; though, given the state of it, that could be quite a while -"

"I'm not hungry anymore," Voldemort muttered, not petulantly at all. He forced a bright smile onto his face. "Shall we, to your office, then, sir?"

His nemesis looked delighted. "We shall." The man glanced at Davis and Nott, who had been trying to engage him in conversation to him prior to the old coot's interruption. "Mr. Nott, Miss Davis."

And with that, the old man departed from the Slytherin table with long strides, leaving him to hurry behind with his embarrassingly short legs.

They reached the Headmaster's unappealingly messy office in far too little time, and the old man wasted no time in ushering him into his seat, while taking his own behind his cluttered desk and smiling at him in a way that was likely meant to be pleasant, but just came off as nauseating to him. Horrifically genuine, you might say.

"Now Harry, how are you doing this evening?"

"I've been worse," he said lightly, giving the most neutral answer he could possibly think of, and it was certainly true. His eyes darted toward the right side of the Headmaster's desk, where his highly-flammable parrot was staring at him with apparent skepticism.

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "That's hardly informative, Harry," he pointed out annoyingly.

 _It wasn't meant to be, you blithering old fool,_ Voldemort wanted to snap, but again, he refrained. Instead he smiled modestly. "I suppose it is not, sir. I suppose I might say that I find myself in a...contemplative mood, which is neither particularly enjoyable, nor is it unpleasant." Indeed, that fit perfectly with the demeanour he had been trying to project all day.

"Contemplative, hmm?" the old goat mused. "And what have you been contemplating, my boy?"

Voldemort knew very well that his smile twitched; he blamed the fact that he had not controlled a body in so long. Again, though, he stayed silent, before offering the truth on a whim, "The omnipotence paradox."

Dumbledore blinked, and then smiled brightly, apparently delighted by his answer, causing a sinking feeling to well up inside him.

Excellent, just _excellent_. His misjudgments were beginning to add up; it must have been Harry's brain interfering with his mind. That was the only explanation.

"Perhaps you can elaborate, Harry," the man said with poorly-disguised relish.

"Oh, it's nothing really," he ground out, "Just idle musings."

The bastard's eyes sparkled. "Well you know what they say, Harry – the idle mind is the devil's playground...and the devil does play such interesting games."

 _Yes, yes I do._ He stifled a sigh. He was faced by a choice, now, and he was now hyper-aware of just how easily he could make yet another misstep. He had been careless, thus far - whatever had been causing Harry to act so rashly was clearly affecting him to some degree, at this point; the effects of sleep deprivation had not vanished with Harry - and he could afford to be affected no longer. What appeared to be the safest option upon initial examination was to quickly excuse himself, to avoid excessive contact with the Headmaster. However, this was fundamentally opposed to Harry's character, at this point; the child, for whatever reason, _liked_ the old bastard, and seemed eager to socialize with him. No, Harry would almost certainly indulge the old man; and Dumbledore knew this.

The question was, which would be the greater indication of irregularity; rejecting the conversation or actually going through with it? The first was simple, safe, but guaranteed arousing further suspicion; the second would be far more difficult - he would be required to be genuine while conversing with the man he hated most in the world. It would be a substantial challenge.

But he had never backed down from a challenge. Which was why, at some point, virtually anyone with a functioning brain stopped challenging him.

He was Lord Voldemort. He would _not_ be vanquished by a mere _conversation._

"I suppose he does, sir. The topic of the night, then, is omnipotence, I suppose?" he said lightly.

The old man's eyes glimmered. "I do believe so, Harry."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Well, then I suppose I have to ask – do _you_ think God can create a stone so heavy that he cannot lift it?"

The old goat tutted slightly. "Why, Harry that's no fun at all, is it?"

Voldemort blinked, caught off guard slightly. "No... _fun_?"

"None at all," the man said cheerfully, "A discussion in which I neatly outline my answer and you yours – well that's a rather dull way to spend a Thursday night, I think. Not to mention, simply bad form, conversationally speaking."

Voldemort resisted scowling, knowing that Harry would be quite pleased by this development. "Very well, then, sir, how do _you_ want to go about this?"

"A most excellent question, Harry. Perhaps I can start by posing a question to you instead; you call our dilemma the 'omnipotence paradox' – but what _is_ omnipotence?"

"Absolute power," Voldemort said slowly. That was literally the definition. What was the old fool going on about now?

"Ah, but then I must ask, what does absolute power look like?"

Voldemort simply stared at him. _Use your imagination,_ he wanted to say. That is precisely what he would have told Harry, who had admittedly far less mental acuity than the lauded 'genius' sitting before him.

The old bastard sighed. "Well, how about I put it like this – if you had absolute power, Harry, what would you do with it?"

"I would exercise absolute power." Again, what answer was he expecting?

"And that means you would do...?"

"Whatever I wanted," Voldemort responded immediately, in a tone that indicated that it was obvious...because it was.

The man's eyebrows rose at his answer, though, as though it were unexpected – but the odd look disappeared in a mere fraction of a moment, and his lips twitched. "And what about the things you don't want to do? Are you unable to do those?"

Voldemort bit back a scoff. "Of course not. I could do whatever I wa -" He froze, fury rising inside of him. Of _course_. Of all the – after less than twenty-four hours in this highly deficient physical form, even his abstract reasoning abilities were already suffering.

Meanwhile, the old goat's lips twitched again. "I see that you have located the glaring hole in your intuitions."

Voldemort smiled tightly. "You certainly got me there, sir."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Free will is a curious thing, isn't it, Harry? Such a very innocent seeming concept, but so pervasive and problematic in the most troubling of ways. Another discussion for another time, I think."

"Indeed," Voldemort said, pretending to be very impressed.

"Well then, perhaps you have another definition you would like to try on?"

"Nothing springs to mind," Voldemort said immediately, hoping the man would just say whatever he was clearly so eager to say, and be done with it.

"Perhaps I might assist you by posing another question, then," Dumbledore said cheerfully, "Can God draw a triangle whose angles add up to more than one hundred and eighty degrees?"

Voldemort felt some amusement stirring inside of him, and he could not help but quip, "I'm not sure about God, sir, but a geometer could, on a sphere."

Dumbledore clapped his hands delightedly. "Oh excellent, Harry, excellent! Non-Euclidean geometry to the rescue, you might say, hmm?"

The fact that he was sharing an advanced arithmancy joke with his arch-nemesis finally settled in, and all the amusement fled. "One...might say that, sir."

"But you see what I am trying to ask, of course?"

"Of course," Voldemort replied evenly.

"But perhaps we have skipped a step," the old goat interjected musingly, "What do you suppose that might be, Harry?"

Voldemort stifled an irritated sigh, and relented, "The definition that states that an omnipotent being has the ability to do anything that is logically possible, right, sir?"

"Just so - although, perhaps we have actually skipped two steps, the second being -"

"The definition that states that an omnipotent being is able to do anything that it is logically consistent for _it_ in particular to be doing," Voldemort droned.

The old bastard grinned. "Exactly so. So what do you think, Harry?"

"About what, sir?" Voldemort asked stubbornly.

Dumbledore's lips twitched. "Which definition most properly frames the problem at hand."

Eager to avoid falling into another trap, he clarified, "The problem of whether or not an omnipotent God can create a stone so heavy that he cannot lift it?"

The man's expression morphed into something that was almost a smirk. "Something like that."

Voldemort stifled another infuriated sigh, resigning himself to being consigned to a state of constant suspicion and potential entrapment. "I think sir, that both definitions add unnecessary complexity to the problem."

Dumbledore looked very intrigued now. "Oh? Do explain."

Voldemort took a calming breath. "Well, logic depends on both axioms and rules of deduction; and even though when talking about consistency we _technically_ shouldn't have to worry about our axioms -"

"Unless they themselves are inconsistent."

Voldemort's face remained perfectly still. "Precisely. But let's assume our axioms are consistent -"

"But are you sure we can do that, Harry?" the old fool interrupted again.

Voldemort smiled slightly. "Why ever not, sir?"

"Well," the old man began, "It has often occurred to me that outside the realm of pure thought, it may very well be humanly impossible to maintain a consistent set of axioms, or base assumptions, as we like to call them; we simply make too many fundamental assumptions about the world to guarantee the consistency of them all. Indeed, I do believe we can count on at least one or two 'butting heads', so to speak."

Voldemort blinked. "Are you saying that everyone is a hypocrite?"

The old bastard shrugged. "Perhaps."

"How cynical of you, sir," Voldemort said blankly.

Dumbledore smiled wryly. "A symptom of old age, perhaps."

Voldemort was silent for a moment. "Well, let's assume that there is a person who is contemplating the omnipotence of a hypothetical God, and this person is the only non-hypocritical being to exist in the universe."

"Must be a terribly dull person," Dumbledore remarked.

"Well, not everyone can be as interesting as you," Voldemort snapped back without thinking.

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "An excellent point, Harry."

Voldemort smiled pleasantly, internally visualizing the Headmaster choking on his blood as he lay at his feet. "I thought so too, sir."

The old man chuckled, as though he were so incredibly amusing.

"Anyway, should such a person exist, your definitions still may very well introduce unnecessary complexity into the problem merely because contrary to popular belief, rules of deduction are not universal."

The old man looked quite delighted by his answer. "Another _excellent_ point, Harry."

"I'm flattered, sir," Voldemort said insincerely.

"Perhaps there's another definition you might propose, then?"

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "I think it's your turn, Headmaster," he deflected.

"I suppose it's only fair," Dumbledore admitted, all too happily, "Well, if _I_ were to be entirely honest, my boy -"

Probably a rarer occasion than most people would like to believe, Voldemort thought wryly.

"- I would admit that I don't really bother with such definitions."

Voldemort simply stared, caught somewhat off guard. He had been sure that this was the point in the conversation where he would make his _point_ (whatever moral or philosophical lesson of the day he had planned for Harry)...after which he could leave, if past interactions were any indication of future ones.

"I'm afraid old age has demanded of me some pragmatism on certain matters, Power being one of them. I have always liked he idea of there being some substance to the ephemeral, to the ideal – the Good, the True; Time, Life, and Death. But Power...not so much. Perhaps it is the question of degrees of relativism. Can there be Life without Death? Perhaps not. Can either of the two exist without subjects to manifest through? Perhaps not. But there is something so much more...temperamental about Power, and I do think that if someone considers it long enough, they will find that it is in itself insubstantial, an empty construct, and that 'absolute power' is both incoherent and meaningless."

Ah, there it was.

"Selective Platonism," Voldemort said dryly.

Dumbledore's lips twitched. "Just so."

They stared at each other for a very long time, and a thought flitted through Voldemort's mind – the thought that he might be sitting across from the only other person in the world who could have possibly ever...been _something._ Or rather, more than _some thing_. Humans - even those with magic, though they were superior by leaps and bounds - were animals, at their core; predictable beasts which are, at the heart of them, dull-eyed masses of flesh that droned through life tangled in strings they refused to cut. They could alleviate effort and provide fleeting entertainment, but they were...just _more things_ cluttering up his world.

And despite his ambitions to reign supreme, a part of him knew that it would one day grow old. At least he now had Harry to take over when he became bored, though.

But Dumbledore had always been - not _more_ than a thing, perhaps, but not just _a thing._ This man _meant something_ , and had things been different, perhaps -

"And you, Harry?" Dumbledore suddenly said, softly. "What does it mean to have absolute power? Does Will hold sway over Possibility?"

Voldemort stared at the man in front of him, as the strangeness of his situation washed over him like a light drizzling of rain. He had spent the majority of his life hating this man, despising him violently and consumingly...and for just the briefest of moments, he forgot why. "If there is a god – which there isn't -"

Dumbledore's lips twitched once again.

"- and he were, as any true god ought to be, omnipotent, then he would transcend logical possibility. Power...is transcendental. One does not ask what God can do, nor what he cannot. One does not question power, unless one has power to match it. And omnipotence is absolute. It is not questioned, it is not bound, and it is free of all chains and limits."

The old bastard stared at him for a very long moment, his face infuriatingly unreadable...and then smiled in a way that was clearly patronizing. "How very...quaint."

Of all the – that fucking bastard – he was _right –_ it made perfect logical – quaint!? Who did he think he – the old goat knew nothing, _nothing_ of true power – oblivious - foolish old -

"Now," the old man rudely interrupted his internal stream of thought, "I had initially requested our little chat on account of certain...concerns with respect to your well being, which were brought to my attention by certain...concerned parties," he said evenly, keeping his voice oddly light, "However, it is now evident to me that you are, in fact, in much better condition than I had initially been inclined to believe."

Voldemort blinked, ire forgotten for a split second. What was the old bastard going on about now? His vagueness was - he froze - ...so very convenient. Because why maintain vagueness if you did not have something to hide; or not know that someone else had something to hide?

"Thus, I believe there is nothing more that I can do than bid you an excellent night, Harry."

Voldemort's mind was buzzing, recording every single detail of Dumbledore's demeanour, critically analyzing his very, very uncharacteristic words, even as he nearly sighed in relief. "Thank you sir," he said after the only moment he dared spare for his analysis, rising to his feet, hopefully not too quickly, "You have a _splendid_ night as well."

The old man smiled fondly. "I shall make sure of it."

Voldemort nodded carelessly, mind still ablaze, and made for the door, before he was interrupted.

"Oh, Harry, before you leave..."

Disgruntled, Voldemort glanced over his shoulder and smiled pleasantly. "Yes, Professor?"

The man smiled softly. "I really think you ought to head straight to bed – your eyes are looking a tad bloodshot."

Voldemort physically restrained himself from stiffening, before nodding quickly. "Of course, sir. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Harry."

And with that, he hurried out of the old man's office, conjuring a mirror once he was safely down the stairs. He held it up to his face, sighing in relief when he observed that his eyes were still a pristine emerald green – not a trace of scarlet. Of _course_ his spell hadn't failed; his spells _never_ failed. Even if they _were_ cast with Harry's defective magic.

"Barmy old fool," he muttered as he vanished the mirror, stalking off, "Blind as well as senile..."

But then he stopped in his tracks, closing his eyes and taking a shuddering breath. Barmy, blind, and senile; everything he knew Dumbledore was not. And yet, he so quickly fell into the trap of assuming him to be so. The man...he was like a worm, deceptively benign even while slithering inside the mind and moving things around without even the use of legillimency. Just like him.

Clearly not as adept, but still.

He could only hope that the worst case scenario - which was now pounding in his head - was mere paranoia.

But even if it wasn't...it was still a race against time, at this point. With the master soul and Dumbledore closing in, the time for action was growing nigh.

And Harry was not remotely ready. As a result, neither was he.

* * *

Voldemort was ready to _murder_ someone, at this point.

Perhaps he should clarify; he was essentially always ready to murder someone, more ore less (one could argue it was a fundamental aspect of his personality), but at that particular moment he was...uncommonly eager to commit a heinous act. Murder might be too...anticlimactic, on second thought. Yes, he was actually leaning more toward...genocide. Yes, genocide would be optimal. But he'd settle for mass slaughter.

Or, heaven help him, just _one_ torture curse. Just _one._

He glanced around the Room of Requirement, flexing his fingers and summoning Harry's wand to his hand.

"I don't suppose that anyone would like to try their hand at resisting the pain of the _cruciatus_ curse?" he asked, almost hopefully.

Daphne Greengrass's hand shot in the air, but the remainder of Harry's followers appeared quite incredulous and disturbed, so he gifted them with a winning smile. "I'm kidding, of course."

Several awkward laughs.

 _Ah, foolish children – if you only knew..._

* * *

There was a certain comfort to be found in existing as an entirely cerebral being. It was true that his thoughts were frequently focused on returning to his physical form, but being afforded a taste of freedom...was bittersweet. There were, of course, the obvious discomforts – the sleep-deprived body, the corrosive magic limiting his ability to perform advanced spellwork, the behavioural restrictions imposed upon him – but even so, he would have expected the autonomy to be more...liberating.

The truth of the matter was that a physical form was restricting even when optimized; his thoughts were far more fluid and organized when he didn't have intrusive external inputs to process and strategizing for optimizing the utility of outputs to disturb his thought processes – as a mere mortal in corporeal form he had been a genius; as an unfettered consciousness in an environment tailored to his wishes, he had transcended the human capacity for thought. Mental simulations and predictions were a simple matter, and though he was not infallible, his ability to analyze human behaviour had never been so pervasive. He both observed and understood, and it was...profound. And this deeper understanding of mind and sentiment and heart and spirit was what had given him the final piece of insight that he had lacked in his youth; the insight that had alluded the entire canon of magical thought to that date.

The soul was a wondrous thing - more than anyone knew. And he found himself wondering at times if dedicating the next century, or even milenium, to refining his knowledge of it might prove a worthier pursuit than any he had ever dreamed of embarking on.

But this... _gift_ , this corporeal form, had spoiled the thrill; being given corporeal form once again was...intrusive. Disruptive. Rife with distractions. It was frustrating.

He _would_ inhabit his own body once again; Lord Voldemort, in his most powerful form, would rise to power once more – but he was fooling himself if he refused to believe that even as the most powerful man in the world, a part of him would not crave the state of pure consciousness that he had so thoroughly mastered.

* * *

Friday passed in very much the same way; until something quite unexpected and incredibly unfortunate happened – the Yule Ball was announced.

The first thing he did, of course, was politely decline the implicit invitation; he explained quite clearly to Minerva (Severus was still avoiding him) that he wished to spend his first Christmas with his 'family' at Grimmauld Place. The woman accepted his explanation without question and assured him that she completely understood, and supported his decision.

Perhaps family was good for something, after all.

Things, however, went downhill from there.

Greengrass followed him around for a while, practically begging him to invite her without actually stating outright that she was a pathetic whore desperate for his attention because she, like most adolescent females raised in pureblood households, had no substantial sense of self-worth and felt unfulfilled both emotionally and sexually, a fact that was supplemented by the quickly eroding shame and fear she felt at her frankly amusing intrinsic psychosexual abnormalities (he might have actually considered changing his mind and attending if she had done so), but he quickly dismissed her with a flat, "I will not be attending this frivolous event."

But it didn't end there. Malfoy kept bemoaning the fact that Parkinson would be furious if he didn't ask her, and Nott ceaselessly deliberated – vocally – whether he should attempt to survive the holiday with his father or endure this Yule Ball idiocy without his 'best friend there to make it bearable'. Voldemort truthfully informed him that this was an impossible decision, and that he was doomed to misery either way. This did not successfully smother Nott's ceaseless babbling, however.

Even the mudblood did not remain unaffected; she kept on ranting about...something related to outdated traditions and the expectations regarding male courting protocol and 'gender norms'...and then about what she would do if she was asked by this person or that person – honestly, he didn't care enough to take note of their names – and how there was literally no one who would make an optimal partner...

This unbearable lunacy continued even as they met the Christiansen girl in the library to study, as had become habit over the last month. However, while he attempted to read a rather fascinating, recently published, book on plural rituals - multifaceted rituals that involved two or more casters, mostly obsolete in western European magical practice but still very actively used in Africa and southern Asia - Harry's followers and potential ally blathered on about the thrice-damned ball instead of studying, _like they were supposed to_. And the mudblood was the worst of them – she talked, and talked, and talked, making no progress and communicating nothing useful, like she was _suppposed to_ (what else was she useful for, anyway?) – except in the subtle twitches in her glance toward Christiansen every time she commented that she doubted anyone she would be interested in would be mutually interested in going with her. Eventually, it became too pathetic for him to bear.

"Oh for god's sake, Hermione, either ask Adina to the ball or kindly take your trivial, infantile complaints elsewhere, along with your adolescent female insecurities, while you're at it," Voldemort snapped, slamming his book on the table. "This passage on magical transmutability in geometrically-based plural casting rituals was positively _riveting_ before you _ruined_ it."

Everyone at the table was gaping at him – along with Madame Pince, several metres away – and the mudblood had turned a dreadful shade of scarlet.

"I – I – I -"

Voldemort swiped the book off the table, rising to his feet. " _You – you – you_ are a Gryffindor. Either act like one or spare me your hypocrisy of character. Now, if you will all excuse me, I shall depart before I am infected with whatever contagion is making everyone in this castle act like an utter fool. Draco, with me."

And with that he swept away, Malfoy hurrying after him. Once they had turned down into an empty corridor, he inquired quietly, "Progress report."

Malfoy blinked. "...progress report."

"The potion, Draco," Voldemort said irritably.

"Oh! Yes – I just bottled it this morning, before breakfast."

Voldemort glanced over at him appraisingly. "You were attending to the potion immediately after waking?"

"Er, yes?"

"Your dedication is...admirable. I will not forget this."

Malfoy's eyes grew wide. "O-of course, Harry. I said I'd finish it as soon as possible – I'd never let you down."

Voldemort nodded. "I trust that you won't."

Malfoy looked quite smug, at that.

Malfoys were so easy to manipulate – it was almost laughable. And a little sad.

They arrived a few moments later at the Room of Requirement, and summoned the room Malfoy had set aside for brewing. Once inside, he wasted no time in conjuring a guinea pig, ignoring the painful tug in his chest as he did so.

"Did you just...wandlessly conjure a rodent?"

"Yes," he said dismissively, placing the creature on the floor and binding it in place with a sticking charm on its feet.

"You want to test the potion...on that?"

"Yes," he said impatiently.

"It's sort of..."

"What?" he snapped.

"It's sort of...rabbit-like, don't you think?"

"Yes."

"Well it's...what if we kill it?"

"Then you will have to brew the potion again, clearly," Voldemort drawled.

"It's just, it's kind of..."

"Spit it out, Draco."

The boy blushed. "Well, it's kind of...cute. I dunno...it just seems a bit like...poisoning a pet, you know?"

A small, amused smile curved across Voldemort's lips. "Oh? Would you rather use, say...a ferret?"

Malfoy paled. "No, the guinea pig is fine."

"That's what I thought. Now administer the potion."

Malfoy glanced between the small creature and the potion with trepidation.

"I don't have all day, Draco."

Malfoy sighed shakily, before kneeling down beside the small guinea pig, which was now making comically pathetic whimpering sounds. The blonde boy cast one more glance up at him, which he returned with a raised eyebrow, before uncorking the miniature vial and pouring it into the rodent's mouth.

They both froze, gazes fixed on the twitching animal – but then it hiccuped quietly and made a soft coughing sound.

Voldemort turned his eyes to Malfoy, who looked so relieved that he was going to cry, and smirked triumphantly. "Well done, Draco. Very well done."

The boy grinned wanly.

* * *

There was a part of Voldemort that truly wished he would have made the Malfoy boy stay and watch when he pointed his wand at the small rodent and happily proclaimed, _"Avada Kedavra"_ , perhaps after transfiguring it into a white ferret for comical effect.

* * *

The evening saw him reading in the Room of Requirement with Nott. He had desired some isolation, and the Slytherin Common Room was bound to be polluted by the jubilant students who saw the need to celebrate the fact that they were afforded two days without classes (despite the fact that this was a weekly occurrence), and the library would be littered with particularly persistent Ravenclaws studying for end of term exams; meanwhile, Nott had insisted that he, too desired some peace and quiet, and would remain silent if he allowed him to accompany him.

The boy kept his promise for about an hour – sixty-seven minutes to be precise – before he spoke up, much to Voldemort's disappointment.

"Are you sure you don't want to just, y'know, drop in for the ball? The important part of Christmas is Christmas morning, really."

Voldemort merely glared at him.

"I mean, it could be great – we could spike the punch, if one of the older students don't do it, and we could -"

"I'm not going," Voldemort said firmly.

Nott slumped into his seat.

He was about to go back to his reading, but suddenly, a rather ingenious idea entered his mind. He looked over at Nott shrewdly. "Who would you go with, were you to attend?"

Nott started. "M-me?"

"Precisely."

Nott grimaced. "I'd, uh, er, um..I dunno. Maybe I just won't go with anyone. That wouldn't be so strange, right? That's what Hermione was saying, earlier, wasn't it? Something about how the notion that you need to have a date to a dance is -"

"It would be strange," Voldemort assured him. He honestly had no idea what was the custom these days.

Nott grimaced. "Oh, well...Tracey, maybe? Or maybe Daphne would think I'm a decent substitute for you..."

"That's rather pathetic," Voldemort pointed out.

"I s'pose so," Nott muttered, dejected.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "Who do you _want_ to take?"

Nott shrugged unhappily. "...no one."

"Surely there's someone, Theo."

The other boy grimaced. "Maybe there isn't."

"I know you too well to believe that; you're being a bit obvious, to be honest. There's someone who you _really_ want to take...but are too afraid to ask."

He saw the boy stiffen.

"Come on, Theo, we're best friends - you can tell me anything, you know?"

Nott smiled sadly. "Let's just say that if there _is_ anyone I'd like to go with...they wouldn't go with me."

Voldemort plastered an unsure look on his face. "Would you go with...me?"

Nott's mouth dropped open. "I – you – you're not going!"

"If I was?"

Admittedly, he took some degree of pleasure in Nott's terrified look. "We – we're two blokes, Harry – we can't go to a dance together!"

"Why not?" Voldemort asked, feigning obliviousness.

"Look, I don't know what it's like in the muggle world, Harry, but two wizards going to a ball together..."

"Adina seemed quite amenable to going with Hermione," he objected.

"She's a half-blood!" Nott exclaimed. "Not that there's anything wrong with that," he backpedalled, "It's just...things are different for...people like me. It's a family thing. It's stupid and outdated, and it's not as much of a thing on the continent anymore, but..."

Voldemort nodded slowly. "I see. You wouldn't go with me, then?" He carefully placed the inflections in his query to convey reluctant disappointment.

"I mean, I...we'd just go as best friends, right? If we did."

Voldemort stared at him. "Is that really what you want?"

"I..." Nott gave him a trembling smile. "This is all hypothetical, isn't it?"

"Oh yes, entirely hypothetical."

Nott's face didn't move, though his eyes conveyed that he was nearly at his limits of his emotional control.

"Though..." he leaned in closer to the other boy - only an inch or two, a barely noticeable distance but likely colossal to Nott - almost conspiratorially, "Hypothetically, there's no one I would rather go with than you."**

Nott looked like he had just been punched quite brutally in the abdomen, and was trying very hard to hide the fact that he had been completely winded.

Voldemort sat back on the couch, his face equal parts coy and contemplative. "Hypothetically, of course."

Nott nodded dumbly.

Taking a moment to stare at the other boy's face, which had the most shameful, curiously agonized yet blissfully awed expression on it, Voldemort rose to his feet. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Theo, I really must retire for the night. Have yourself a lovely evening."

And with that, he swiftly departed, a smug smirk on his face. Theodore Nott was well on his way to being _in love_ with Harry Potter. Years of considering the power of Lily Potter's sacrifice and Severus's defection had not convinced him that 'love was the most powerful magic', but it had clarified that for most average homo sapiens, it was the single most powerful motivator. Quite frankly, it was an immensely _cheap_ method of entrapment. Love, both chaste and carnal, could make the wisest of men into fools, the most honourable of men into knaves, the most moral of men into degenerates, and the holiest men into devils.

Nott knew too much; more importantly, he knew Harry too well, and cared too much...but if he found love in another, whatever loyalty he had dedicated to Harry would be tarnished, and his knowledge and understanding would become a weapon against them. This could not be allowed to happen. The best way to avoid this? To convince Nott that his feelings were not futile, and that Harry might one day reciprocate his them; the result would be a servant whose dedication was unbreakable and absolute, and moreover, genuine. All it would take was a few intimate gestures and a few tender words, carefully placed for maximum effectiveness.

Like he said, cheap.

* * *

Closing Harry's green curtains and setting up numerous privacy charms, he lay back in the bed and downed the potion in his hand in one go. Now he just had to wait...

Unfortunately, patience was not one of his virtues, few as he had.

Slightly disgruntled after several (alright, closer to two) minutes of waiting for the potion to take effect, he reached outside the curtains, pulling Harry's trunk out from under his bed and beginning to rummage through it. It was mostly books, at this point, most of which he was familiar with -

Except one.

Idly curious, he lifted a large leather-bound book from the trunk, staring curiously at the photo album Hagrid had given Harry after the conclusion of his first year. He slowly lifted the front cover, immediately faced with a portrait of a smiling young family; a man – barely more than a boy – grinning animatedly with his arms wound tightly around a woman with blazing red hair and vividly green eyes, cast down toward the giggling child in her arms. He was intimately familiar with Harry's feelings toward this portrait; when he looked at it, the sentimentality was palpable. Harry saw in it an impossible dream: a brave, joyful father; a kind, loving mother; and an innocent child destined for a happy and fortunate life.

A lie.

And he knew it was a lie, because he saw something entirely different when he looked at this so very misleading picture.

He saw a foolish boy wrapped up in a fatal morality and a self-righteous hero complex, consumed by the kind of poisonous loyalty of spirit that runs as free as blood in times of war; a child who thought he was a man, and a soldier who thought he was a warrior. He saw a girl whose eyes were older than anyone knew, whose kindness was belied by a Machiavellian pathos and a brilliance that was too sharp to be benign; a puppeteer who had yet to cut her own strings, fated to stumble while hopelessly tangled in them.

And finally...a blank slate.

The child in the picture was unrecognizable. Between Lily Potter, Albus Dumbledore, and most significantly, himself, that little child was little more than a peripheral character in an obsolete story; that tiny infant was all but dead, and Harry Potter, or whatever had taken his place...was something else entirely. And what that was, even he was not quite sure of.

And with that idle thought, he drifted into slumber.

* * *

From blackness arose a curious scene; a boy, dressed in Hogwarts robes, seated cross-legged on the floor, staring at a blank white wall that seemed so very out of place in the room Harry had inanely dubbed 'the Room of Hot Chocolate'.

"Harry."

The boy looked over his shoulder. "Oh, hello, Tom."

Voldemort felt a jolt of irritation. "Where have you been?"

Harry blinked. "Here, I suppose."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "And where is here?"

Harry looked around curiously. "I'm actually not sure."

"You're not sure."

"Nope." He turned back to the wall.

Voldemort's fingers twitched. "You've been here for _days_."

"Have I? How many?"

"Two," Voldemort ground out.

"Huh. I honestly thought it had been longer. Or perhaps shorter. I'm not actually sure. Shorter, I think, actually." Slowly, Harry rose to his feet, and turned around to look at him. "Well, you know what they say – time flies when you're having fun."

"You were staring at a wall," Voldemort pointed out flatly.

"Walls can be fun," Harry pointed out in turn.

Voldemort simply stared at him, unimpressed. "You are incredibly lucky that I cannot curse you in here – otherwise I would do so with abandon."

Harry smiled wryly. "I know."

Voldemort sighed. Sometimes he wondered if he had done _too_ well a job in his moulding of Harry. His virtually nonexistent aversion to pain resulted in a kind of subtly irreverent nonchalance, and he was doubtlessly at least partially to blame. "Have you...recovered?"

Harry nodded slowly. "I think so."

"Good."

"It makes me so happy to know you care, Tom."

"What happened?" Voldemort demanded, ignoring him.

Harry frowned. "Honestly, I'd thought you might have been able to tell me. I...I know _something_ happened, and I remember this feeling, the strangest feeling I've ever felt...but it's just a haze, a blur. It's like I was half asleep the whole time."

That was...concerning, to say the least. An altered state of consciousness?

He filed that information away for later, when he could take the time to examine the possibilities. "And how am _I_ supposed to know what happened? I was unaffected."

Harry's eyebrows, rose. "Completely?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Well, I suppose I...there's not really much to say. It was a...glitch - I don't know any more than that."

"...I see."

Harry blinked. "I see? That's it?"

Voldemort quirked an eyebrow. "Well what do you want me to say?"

"I dunno, something...Tom-ish."

"Tom-ish," he repeated skeptically.

"You know, insightful? Clever?"

"For all my immense knowledge and skill, I am not a mind healer, Harry," he said, "I am not familiar with all the physical and metaphysical effects of sleep deprivation."

Harry sighed. "Yeah, that's completely reasonable. I'd just like to avoid...episodes like this, in the future."

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself well enough," he pointed out, not resentfully at all.

"Enjoyment really isn't the right word," Harry muttered.

He did not respond, considering Harry's words. The facts kept becoming more concerning.

"So have I been in the infirmary these past two days?" Harry asked, grimacing slightly. "Or am I still in the middle of the Forbidden Forest...dying of hypothermia?"

"No, I have been...filling in for you these last couple of days."

Harry paled. "Wh-what?"

He didn't respond, knowing that the boy was merely being obtuse.

"Is – is everyone still alive?"

"As far as I know," he replied carelessly.

"...right. Well...anything I should know?"

Voldemort considered this. "There will be a Yule Ball taking place at Hogwarts this Christmas."

"Like, a dance?"

"Precisely. We will not be attending."

Harry shrugged. "Probably for the best."

"Indeed. You have secured Christiansen as the mudblood's partner."

Harry blinked, before his face split into a grin. "Oh, that's lovely!"

"Indeed," Voldemort said indifferently, "And you kissed Nott."

"WHAT!?" Harry nearly screeched.

Voldemort stared at him in amusement. "Not actually - merely something to that effect."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Oh, I only conveyed very explicitly that while you have no intentions of attending the dance, he would be your ideal partner."

Harry stared at him for a moment, his face blank, if not a little bemused. "Well, that's true. He's my best friend."

A smirk crept across Voldemort's lips. "Are you sure?"

Harry's face remained slightly bemused. "Yes."

"Well," Voldemort drawled, "I can with immense certainty say that he does not feel the same way."

Harry looked very confused for a moment, before realization dawned on him. "But then he -"

"Precisely."

"I – you – why would you _do_ that?"

"Nott is infatuated with you," Voldemort explained, "I have used this fortuitous fact to secure his loyalty."

"He was already loyal!" Harry shouted, outraged, and somewhat alarmed.

"Yes, but for how long?"

"He – I - but what am I going to do, now, Tom? He's going to think that I -"

"Hold affections for him."

"Exactly! I just – that's cruel, Tom! You can't just manipulate people's feelings to blackmail them into staying with you!"

"I just did."

"I know! And I – I...Merlin, how am I going to fix this?"

"You won't."

"I'll just...I'll just have to tell him it was a misunderstanding...that I wasn't in my right mind...that I didn't mean to imply -"

"You will do no such thing. He would never forgive you."

Harry stared at him, horrified. "How will I ever find a girlfriend if I pretend to be in love with my best friend?"

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "'Pretending to be in love' might be taking it a little bit too far, don't you think? While you are indeed in the same age demographic as Romeo, Shakespearean is hardly your style. You are far too awkward for that. It would come off as heavy-handed."

Harry scowled.

"Besides, do you even _want_ a girlfriend?"

"Well, no," Harry admitted, "Not really, at the moment; I'm under the impression that it will have to happen eventually, though. I'm not sure why – I don't really see the appeal, to be honest...but maybe Daphne's just ruined the concept for me...though, dating Adina would have been pretty neat, but if Hermione's interested, well, I think that's a more optimal pairing -"

"Then there is no conflict of interest," he cut in.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but whatever he was going to say died in his throat, and he settled on sighing in resignation, which was...followed by a look of resolve. As though he had come to a decision, rather than yielding to another's will. That was...concerning.

"Fine, just...whatever."

Voldemort smirked in amusement, once again storing his source of concern for later evaluation.

"Shut up," Harry snapped.

"Mind your tongue, child," Voldemort reminded him menacingly.

Harry sulked in return.

It was then that the white walls around them shook violently, shimmering slightly.

Harry looked at him fearfully. "He's here."

Voldemort nodded, feeling some excitement stirring inside of him. "Yes, he has come. The potion should activate any moment now."

"The potion?"

"The Malfoy boy completed it."

Harry's eyes widened in realization. "Then this is it."

It was then that, with a great boom and a shudder, the walls crumbled around them, leaving them surrounded in a black mist – but a moment later it cleared, and they found themselves standing in a small, firelit room.

" _Crucio."_

Shrieks filled the room, and he and Harry both turned to find the source; a fat man with balding hair writhing on the floor, face wrenched into a pained expression.

"You have failed me, Wormtail," a high, thin, frail voice hissed.

His gaze shifted to the high-backed, red velvet chair sitting in front of the hearth, whereupon sat a small homunculus, an infantile, skeletal creature with glaring scarlet eyes.

His lip curled in disgust.

"Tom."

He turned to see Harry snooping around the room.

"We're supposed to be looking for clues, not marvelling at how ugly your master soul is."

His lips twitched, and, realizing that the boy had a point, he cast his eyes around the room – but it only took him a few seconds to realize where they were.

"I know exactly where we are," he said musingly, suddenly quite amused.

Harry looked at him with triumph written all over his face. "Where!?"

"Riddle House."

Harry's eyes widened. "Isn't that a little...risky?"

"It certainly would not be my first choice," Voldemort murmured.

"Ok, well...that's great, I suppose. We did it." He paused. "So...what now?"

"...please...please, my Lord, mercy..."

Voldemort smirked. "Sit back and enjoy the show, I suppose."

Harry glanced down at Pettigrew, who was now snivelling and wringing his hands, before shrugging. "Sure. I don't have anything better to do."

If only his master soul knew that another piece of his soul and its container/protege – who happened to be the infamous Boy-Who-Lived – were leaning against a wall in an environmental reconstruction in his mind, watching with amusement as he cast the _cruciatus_ curse, over, and over again.

Caught up in his amusement, he never saw the calculating look on Harry's face and the realization glimmering in his eyes.

* * *

**I put two stars so you know it's important:

So first off, settle down everyone. Let me explain.

"But you said it's not slash!"

Yes, I did, but I also clarified that Harry would not be romantically involved with another male character. This is still true.

If you don't care, great! Have fun discovering what I have planned. If you do, feel free to PM me and I'll be glad to give you explanations/spoilers/whatever you need. For the time bear in mind that 'platonic' doesn't necessarily mean 'just friends', and not 'just friends' doesn't imply romantic/sexual involvement.

Also, this does not mean that Harry/Daphne (or anything, really, at this point...except HP/LV...just not gonna happen) is off the table, because Harry's clearly not made for monogamy. Just sayin'.

* * *

 **This will be my last post until either June 4 or 11.** I'm going to Costa Rica for a few weeks, and won't be staying at a resort, so I'll have limited access to wifi, and will probably be too busy hiking up volcanoes or swimming to do much writing.

* * *

Anyway, I've clearly given you all a lot to think about, and I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	12. Open and Close

**Disclaimer:** Starting to wonder if ownership is possible...PROPERTY IS THEFT!

ok I'll shut up now...

 **AN:** Hello everyone! I have returned to both real life and virtual life from the mystical in between, and this chapter is now posted in its entirety!

 **AN (slash...'n stuff):** So...right. The more I think about this the less of a problem I see, to be honest, but recalling the number of messages and reviews I've had of the worrying/warning/requesting-reassurance type, I really ought to say a thing or two. Problem is, there's a lot I can say and I'm not sure which parts of it will actually be productive. So I'll just make a few disjointed points instead of forming this already large rant into a massive mini-essay.

First point, and possibly the one that will assuage a lot of people's worries. If you really want a run down on every character's sexuality (which hasn't been entirely decided on in some cases), here's the working theory: Harry is asexual and mostly aromantic until further notice, Hermione is gay, Theo's demisexual/romantic, Daphne is probably bisexual, and Draco, Tracey, Sirius, Remus, and honestly most characters are likely straight or at least bisexual but currently either single or in a heterosexual relationship. (And, to clarify, Voldemort is just an asshole who really has no interest in people, regardless of gender and sexuality.)

Second point - I want everything to be straightforward and clear; I have found that the most generally accepted definition of slash is 'a piece of fanfiction that depicts the romantic or sexual relationship of two main-ish male characters'. Now let me save some people (those who weren't satisfied in the previous paragraph) some time: if we agree on this definition, then, in simple terms, this story is not slash. Period. I cannot speak for all possible definitions, however.

But I honestly don't think this is the problem.

(And here comes the rant.)

I realize that there are a lot of people who are uncomfortable with the very idea of slash; that's ok, I am too. A lot of slash is the fetishization and exploitation of the queer community, and that makes me uncomfortable, because coming onto this site as a queer author who feels some responsibility to advocate the visibility of their community and encourage accurate depictions of it in fiction, it's very disheartening to hear the polarized reactions of people who are really, really into slash but don't understand the context, and people who are uncomfortable and don't like it and are really scared of being labeled as homophobic. It's indicative of so many huge problems; how minorities are fetishized, how they're told that they're 'tolerated' by society but are asked to leave their identity at the door if they want to join the club, how even in 'LGBTQ literature' non-binary persons and asexual/demisexual people are often completely ignored, how males with 'feminine' characteristics are often looked down on because being female still has a negative connotation in the 21st century...

The list goes on.

And this is all really troubling, and needs to be dealt with. Unfortunately, this is not the time or place. So I'll just share something personal, because maybe if you understand more about how I feel about the idea of love between characters, you'll have a better understanding of 'what you're getting into', if that's really necessary: love isn't always something familiar to us. I firmly believe that two people could never even touch, but still feel the most profound love for each other that either is capable of. I think that pure, singular feelings like that are genuine, and that they can actually be tarnished by bringing romance or sex into the equation. This is the philosophy at the core of the way I write relationships between characters.

Oh, and finally...honestly guys, this isn't a pairing based story. At all. It really won't impact that much as far as the actual types of events focused on; as you'll see in later in this chapter the pace is starting to pick up and there will be limited time for teenage drama. So I don't think there's anything else I need to say at this point, so unless someone says something that is worth looking at further, I think this is the end of it? PM me if you want, and we can chat more.

 **Final AN:** So, the first part of this chapter is odd, and a few people have commented that it's a bit tricky to follow. So at the very end of the chapter, I have kept a little bit of an explanation.

* * *

 **Chapter 12: Open and Close**

 _December 9, 4 am_

He was laughing so hard – everything was so bright – and oh, the _colours_ \- his body felt so far, far away – farther – farther – spinning – nausea – _close your eyes, close your eyes -_

And open.

Harry blinked confusedly; all the colours had fled, and he was now faced with immaculately white ceiling, shadowlessly illuminated by a sourceless light.

He giggled a bit, amused by just how strange it was, as he cast his eyes all around him.

He was in a room. A white room. And he had _no_ idea how he'd gotten there.

And wasn't that _interesting_. A completely white room, painted with the whitest of whites (though, something gave him the impression that there was no paint involved – that these walls had always been, by necessity, white), completely unmarked and -

Unmarked. There was no door.

He grinned, this time uneasily, and rose to his feet. There was a door. There _had_ to be a door.

He walked over to the wall, placing his hands on it, sliding them over the surface, looking for any irregularity, any indication that he could escape. It was so smooth that his thoughts almost slipped away as frictionlessly as his hand had along the wall.

He traversed the room, and then again, and then again, and then again, and a few more times, until he had reached the very bottom of the wall, and was on his knees.

He did the same on the floor; there was nothing.

As his hands wandered, a feeling had risen inside him – a feeling he did not at all like. But that's all it was, a feeling...until he reached that last section of floor, and found nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"No..." Harry whispered. "Impossible, there's always...there's always a way out...there's always..."

Panic was welling up inside him, and he could feel his heart beating like a drum in his chest, and his limbs beginning to stiffen.

"Let me out," he said, and rose to his feet, looking around for any indication that he had been heard.

There was no answer.

"Let me out," he repeated, his voice strained.

Still no answer.

"Let me out!" he called - maybe he hadn't been heard?

His request was met by deafening silence.

"Let me out! Let me out! LET ME OUT!"

He looked around desperately, and for a moment he thought he saw a faint outline, a door drawn on the wall.

His heart leapt, and he ran over to it, practically smashing into it, and then knocking frantically.

No answer.

Letting out an incoherent shout of frustration, he began to slam his fist at the door.

"Let me out...let me out...let me out – GAH!"

He kicked the door as hard as he could, his fists continuing the attack a moment later.

"LET ME OUT!" he screamed, "You can't keep me here! Let me out! Let me out – or I'll fucking kill you I swear I will, LET ME OUT! LET. ME. OUT!"

He continued to to lay siege on the wall, attacking it mercilessly until his limbs started to tire, and his voice grew hoarse – and then he stumbled back, glaring furiously at the door – which wasn't there.

Nothing but immaculate white. He hadn't even made a dent, and there was no door in sight.

He sunk to his knees. "No...no..it was there, I saw it. It has to be -"

His breath caught in his throat.

"Please," he rasped out, "Please let me out. I – I'll do anything you want. Just let me out of here. Or even just – show me a door, or a window, or anything – they don't have to open, just -"

He could feel tears running down his cheek, and his limbs were growing numb.

"Even just...a sound, something that – just something."

His eyelids grew heavy, even as his heart hammered in his chest with such painful ferocity he thought it might explode.

"Is anybody there?" he whispered faintly, beginning to slur his words, "Don't leave me...please don't leave me alone."

* * *

 _Several hours later._

Harry blinked blearily, and was met by white. Confused, he sat up, looking around with growing unease. The unease culminated in some undefined but jarring emotion when he saw that he was not alone; that he was joined by the figure of a boy in the corner of the cube-like room he was in, whose knees were drawn up to his chest while his hands clutched his head and he rocked back and forth, muttering to himself.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, and with every step forward the mutterings grew louder; and as the texture of the voice and the messy, jet black hair that crowned the boy's head became clearer, the unease grew to nearly paralyzing levels.

"Hello?" he asked gently, his voice shaking slightly.

The mutterings grew louder, but he received no coherent response.

"Can you hear me?"

Still no answer.

"Hello?" he asked a little louder, his voice stronger this time.

And this caught the boy's attention, because his head snapped upward violently, revealing an exact copy of his own face.

"You're not real," the boy said, his emerald green eyes owlishly wide and his face eerily serene and disturbed at the same time, before wrenching his eyes shut and grabbing his head in both hands, beginning to mutter incoherently once again.

"It's a bit unnerving, isn't it?"

Harry spun around, stumbling backwards to find -

Himself. Again.

"There's a reason it's white, you know."

"Where am I?" Harry asked hurriedly, ignoring the puzzling statement, "What is this place? Who is he? Who are _you_?"

The other being's eyebrows rose. "That's...a lot of questions. Do you have a preference of order?"

Harry scowled. "Who are you?" he bit out.

The other smiled pleasantly. "Harry Potter, at your service. A pleasure, I'm sure."

Harry's breath caught in his chest, and for a moment he thought that it had been him speaking, and that he was staring in the mirror; the unassuming and ambiguous smile, the bright green eyes that always seemed so far away when he imagined them (though only as a bastardization of his mother's eyes had they ever appeared in his mind), the politeness of the words - despite their narcissistic bent - that sounded so natural and yet awkward in his ears.

"I'm Harry Potter," he whispered.

"Are you sure?" the other asked with clearly feigned curiosity, sounding a little bitterly mocking, "Are you Harry Potter, all of him? Everything that he is, everything he knows? All his potential and ideas and beliefs and memories wrapped up in one? That's a big responsibility."

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"Even I'm not quite up for the job...so you see, I was exaggerating, just a moment ago. I'm not Harry Potter, not really. Just a piece of the puzzle, if you like...just like you."

"I'm Harry Potter," Harry repeated.

"That's a little conceited of you, don't you think?"

"It's not - I'm - I -"

"You think you remember _being_ Harry Potter."

"Yes!" Harry said exasperatedly.

"Well that certainly doesn't mean anything, does it? You can't remember _being_ something, that doesn't make any sense. What you _mean_ to say is that you remember experiencing the things that Harry Potter experienced, thinking his thoughts, saying his words, deciding and doing what he did. But that doesn't really _mean_ anything, does it? They're just memories, and those are hardly reliable."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but he realized that he couldn't.

"Maybe you did experience those things. Maybe those are _your_ memories. Or maybe not. Maybe you were born just minutes ago, in this room. There's no way for you to know, is there?"

Harry let out a shaky breath. "...do you know?"

"Maybe."

"Then -"

"I won't tell you," the other said, "But suffice it to say that in a little while you'll be taking over for him."

He pointed at the figure curled up in the corner.

"Who's _he_?" Harry asked uneasily.

"He's just like us. A part of Harry Potter. He's rather more like you, than me, though."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The other smiled slightly. "How do you think he ended up like that?"

"How should I know?" Harry bit out.

"You wouldn't. It was a rhetorical question meant to emphasize the point I'm about to make."

Harry scowled.

The other sighed. "He is, rather like you, unhappy about being here. Most people don't like being locked in a box; at least, that's my understanding."

"You seem fine."

"Well, I'm exceptional...and used to it."

Harry frowned. "But where's _here_?"

"A not-so-cozy corner of Harry Potter's mind."

Harry glanced between the two copies of himself, puzzled. "Then why couldn't he get out? We should be able to do anything we want if -"

"See, this is exactly my point. You lot from the surface have it so easy; you think you can do anything you want. It's not like that, here, in the back of Harry's mind. On the surface, you have all the control. But this domain is beyond your reach, and you're powerless, here."

"But you're not."

"There are some perks to exile."

Harry didn't respond, realizing that he was only digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole of absurdity. "So what you're telling me is...we're all parts of Harry Potter, and this is his mind? And we're trapped here?"

"Yes, but I mean, I was hoping you'd get more out of my explanation -"

"I'm not done," Harry cut in, slightly annoyed, "You said we're both from the surface, which means we access and control the parts of the mind that interact directly with the world...that's...do I ...or Harry...have multiple personality disorder?"

The other chuckled. "I mean, kind of. There are literally two separate people sharing this mind, body, and soul."

Harry scowled. "That's not what I meant."

The other gave him a half smile. "I know. I was joking. And this is what people mean when they tell us we're not funny."

"People tell me I'm funny all the time."

"When you don't mean to be."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it again. "Fair point."

The other smirked.

"Shut up."

"What? It's getting better."

Harry huffed. "So what's he then, if not another personality?"

"Personality's a very...vague term. It doesn't make much sense to me, to be honest. And it makes everything seem so...static. Like a person is a one thing with an 'ality'."

Harry ignored the last nonsensical comment. "Then what _are_ we?"

"Processes."

Harry frowned. "Processes?"

The other nodded. "That's what it seems to me, at this point, at least. Remember that book Dumbledore recommended? The one on Emergence?"

Harry's eyes widened and he felt a rush of excitement. "So...we're not actually _people_? We're processes so complex that consciousness emerged!"

"It's a working theory."

An awed grin had made his way onto Harry's face. "That's...amazing. This is _incredible._ "

The other shrugged. "Perhaps. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that we're both just...'things that happen'...and he is too," he gestured towards the entity muttering in the corner. "You're not so special...neither is he, and neither am I."

Harry frowned. "But wait a moment - what does that even _mean_? How am I a _process_? How is _he?"_

The other glanced back over at the figure rocking back and forth in the corner. "What do you remember, about the last few days?"

Harry frowned. "I..." His eyes widened. "I - oh my g - I jumped off the _Astronomy Tower -"_ He paled. "Tom's going to _kill me."_

"Voldemort."

"Huh?"

"His name is Voldemort," the other said darkly.

Harry froze at the other's tone of voice - which was so resignedly venomous that it was chilling, in a way - before a realization hit him, and he pointed at the corner accusingly. "He was the one in control, then! That was _him!"_

The other nodded.

Harry stared down at the figure in revulsion. "He almost got me _killed_."

"It's not his fault. He didn't ask to be like that - he's...ill. And he's never going to get better. If processes are born in the wrong place at the wrong time they can be... _infected..._ and there's nothing that can be done about it."

"I don't understand how he was born in the first place."

The other shrugged. "Whatever was calling the shots beforehand likely made a mistake, and created him...and he just took over. That's what you lot do."

"What do you mean, 'you lot'?"

"I believe the term we've read is 'agents' - back during Voldemort's philosophy of mind kick, if you recall."

Harry grimaced. The hours of reading dry philosophy texts as a nine year old had been far from engaging. It was a bit maddening, in fact.

"This mind is filled with processes; some of them Harry Potter as an active consciousness is aware of, and some of them he isn't; they get organized and prioritized, but only a few are ever acted upon, and there needs to be something that selects them; something that rejects the other processes and decides on one to follow."

Harry's lips twitched. "Then I'm the free will."

"Or the lack thereof."

Harry said nothing, fully acknowledging the other's point.

That he might be completely obsolete.

"So what, we just spring up in random places, act as Harry Potter, and then are replaced when another takes over?"

The other shrugged. "That's how it looks from here, anyway."

"But where exactly is _here_? You said we had no control, because it's not the surface."

"This is...a part of the unconscious. Some processes live here just because that's where they belong...but others are shoved back here involuntarily...like me."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "What did you _do_?"

"I existed," the other said coldly. "You remember what that's like, don't you? Being locked away just for just _existing_?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I do..." he agreed quietly. "Is that my doing, then? Or his? Or -"

"I'm not sure. I didn't receive an explanation. That's not how this works; all I know is that one day I was just going about minding my own business, doing what I'm supposed to be doing, and then I just..."

"Well, if it was me, for what it's worth...I'm sorry."

The other shrugged again. "If it was you, it's not like you can help it."

Harry frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Weeellll," the other drawled, "Harry's a pretty accomplished occlumens, right? Repressed feelings and denial should come easy to him. Second nature, really. It's hard-wired into him at this point."

"I'm not in denial." He probably couldn't argue with the repressed feelings though.

"Oh yes, of course," the other said unconvincingly.

Harry scowled at him.

"You know," the other began after a few moments, "Teaching someone occlumency is a great way to manipulate them on a deeply intimate level, if you think about it – you build a relationship based on 'mutual' trust, literally get inside their head, and then teach them how to compartmentalize."

Harry glared. "I'm _not_ manipulating my friends."

"Well, firstly, Harry kind of is, and second, that's not really what I was talking about."

Harry frowned. "Then what were you talking about?"

The other looked at him incredulously. "You still -" he stopped short and looked away dejectedly. "Never mind, not my job," he muttered.

"I don't understand. What _is..._ or was your job?"

The other pursed his lips. "It's kind of hard to explain."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Try me. I'm not an idiot."

The other mimicked his expression flawlessly. "You're also not as clever as you think you are."

"Then you aren't either."

The other shook his head. "I...know more. You only know what your predecessors _let_ you know. Anything that's _problematic_...they can just discard it. Lock it away. Like me."

"Then why aren't there all sorts of holes in my memories?" Harry objected.

"It's called confabulation," the other explained. "We've read about it before. You just fill in the blanks; you create memories, beliefs, and ideas where you think you need them. And certain other... _invested_ parties aid in the process."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Fine, but...I still want to know."

The other sighed. "I'm...a little bit like Harry's conscience."

"I have a _conscience._ "

"Well it's not a very good one."

Harry scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're not as clever as you think you are," the other bit out, "You seem to think that feeling guilt and acting on ethical standards is evidence of a conscience. It's not. It's just a kind of culturally enforced egoism. The narcissism of morality, you might say," he lectured. "Don't confuse me with those guys. Plebeians."

"The...narcissism of morality?"

"It's totally a thing," the other said.

"You made that up."

"...no."

"Right," Harry said doubtfully.

"You should just take my word as law, you know," the other said, "I'm _much_ smarter than you are."

Harry smirked. "And yet _you're_ the one stuck in the back of my mind."

The other's face contorted into a pained and poisonous shape. "Well _some_ of us don't get to do whatever we want. _Some_ of us don't get to run around, causing havoc, doing whatever we feel like and damn the consequences because it's easier to play make-believe and pretend everything's alright when it's not. _Some_ of us actually _care_ about Harry...even if _you_ and _him_ -" his hand whipped out to point at the corner "- don't give a damn about him."

"I..." He froze, realizing he couldn't defend himself. This...process, or whatever, knew everything he knew, and more. It had a perspective that he didn't have. He really was starting to believe he _had_ just been born in that room. "I'm sorry, I don't know what...can I help? Can I -"

"No. You can't just _fix_ things. There's no reset button to press; the worse the surface becomes the more badly infected the agents become; it just gets worse and worse."

Harry widened his eyes. "Am I infected?"

"I...I don't know. This is far more complicated than I've been making it out to be."

"Then explain it."

The other shook his head. "I can't. You're not even supposed to be this deep, really. Processes like you never really make it far back enough to interact with repressed ones, and if you were born here, maybe it was on purpose; maybe you were born here to avoid being polluted by the processes living closer to the surface. Maybe Harry's getting smarter. Took you long enough."

"I don't understand. If I'm the agent shouldn't I - decide these things? I don't understand how I'd decide where I'm born, but...and shouldn't I be the one to make him disappear?" He looked over his shoulder to point at the boy in the corner...and found nothing. Just empty white.

A shiver went down his spine.

The other looked around warily. "I told you, it's not that simple. Processes are composed of their own processes, and we're not the only things in here. There's," he lowered his voice, "This...force. No one can see it, hear it, touch it...but we know it's there, because it makes us disappear. When we become...I don't even know...it takes us. It makes us vanish and either destroys us entirely or sends us deeper into your mind."

Harry shifted uneasily. "It's just some force? Messing with my brain?"

The other shook his head. "It's always been here, and will always be here. It's part of Harry Potter. What part, I don't know. Maybe I'm not meant to. Maybe I never will know. All I know is that you've never tried to stop it."

Harry was silent, caught up in this fear, that he too will be vanished, just like the boy in the corner.

"Anyhow, I really ought to get going, before lockdown is over and I end up lost."

Harry frowned. "Lockdown?"

"Most of your mind is completely shut down, right now. That's why you're trapped here. It's some sort of safety measure."

Harry frowned. "I thought you said you -"

The other grinned. "You make too many assumptions. I can leave anytime I want; what actually happened is that I used the confusion of the last few days to sneak out - he wasn't as good at keeping things organized back there as you, or your predecessor, or whatever, was. I figured I'd catch you when _you're_ the one who's trapped. Then you'd have to listen to me."

For some reason, Harry couldn't bring himself to feel angry at being misled.

"Just thought I'd remind you, or inform you, that I exist, and that it would be really, really nice if you'd let me out now and again."

Harry looked at him guiltily. "I'm not really sure how."

"Not my job."

Harry smiled wryly.

"There are others too. Some of us are aware of each other, because we're parallel or causally connected. Some of them are _really, really_ important...I honestly don't know why they've been locked up at all."

Harry's eyebrows rose, and he suddenly felt very uncomfortable. "Just how many parts of myself have I repressed? Or, I guess...have been vanished."

The other grimaced. "A lot."

Harry frowned. "Then why don't I feel more...empty?"

"Because you're not," the other said lowly. "There are others, walking around in here – copies, fakes. Ideas that grew like weeds in your mind, imitating us and taking our places when we vanish...and as long as you keep us – the real Harry – locked up, they'll continue to feed off you until there's nothing left; they're like occamies – they'll grow to fit the available space, until there's no room for anything else at all...and then we'll never get out." The other smiled sadly. "I don't want that to happen. I don't want to spend the rest of your life in the dark. But there's nothing I can do. It's up to you now."

"But, I don't understand, if you're my conscience, and the other parts of me are all locked up, what am _I_? How can I do anything at all?" Harry asked desperately. "If the processes that are at the front of my, Harry's mind, the ones that are available, are fakes, how can I even start to...I don't even know what we're talking about anymore..."

"I...don't know either, I think," the other admitted. "All I know is that you call the shots. We exist because of Harry, and...the fact that we still exist means that he's not a hopeless case. If you really are the agent, at least...it means that despite the fact that agents like _him_ -"

Harry grimaced.

"- exist, there's still time. There's still something to save. But only Harry can save Harry; only you can save yourself."

Harry opened his mouth but no words came out.

"Which will be pretty damn hard, because you won't remember me at all."

Harry gaped. " _What?"_

"You really _aren't_ as clever as you think you are. This is your unconscious, genius. Do you think you just get to experience things here and remember them like they actually happened _to you_?"

"Well -"

"It'll all be a dream at best. I mean, you'll still _know_ all the information I've given you, you'll just have no idea where it came from. Inspiration, I guess. Realization."

Harry continued to gape.

"See you later, Harry."

The other vanished, leaving an empty white space, upon which Harry's eyes remained fixed.

He was alone again.

But maybe...maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe it was about time he enjoyed some peace and quiet. Or was born in peace and quiet. Or died in peace and quiet. Whatever.

* * *

 _Dear Sirius,_

 _I found it. We can discuss the details next week when I return to Grimmauld Place._

 _Also, I made my first transformation._

 _Yours sincerely,_  
 _Harry._

Harry folded and sealed the letter, before handing it to Clarence.

"To Sirius Black, Clarence, as always."

When the bird took off, Harry began the long trudge down from the owlery, deep in thought, trying desperately to provide neither Tom - who, at this point, he was not sure was paying attention or not - nor any curious onlookers with evidence of his morose and troubled musings.

He missed his white room. Two days of silence; alone. It wasn't as unnerving as one might think.

Quiet and empty; once he resigned himself to it it was actually quite comforting. There weren't any distractions, no indication of the passing of time, and...no Tom.

Just thinking that made something guilty twist in his chest, stirring his stomach with nausea.

He felt horrible saying so, but his time in the white room was the first time he could recall actually being alone in his own head, free of observation and judgment; after all, his memories before Tom were quite hazy, and he really didn't empathize with the little boy that was their protagonist, anymore. All he ever knew as Harry Potter, the Harry Potter who existed now, was life with Tom.

He sometimes felt like he never really knew the lonely little boy whose only friends were the snakes in his aunt's garden and the spiders he met in his cupboard under the stairs.

His first instinct was to call that strength; he wanted to say he'd moved on, gotten better, stronger; he wasn't that weak child any longer. But he wasn't sure if that was true. Because he wasn't sure what had happened, to that little boy. Harry Potter. Who was Harry Potter, without Tom Riddle? Tom permeated through his memories, dictated his future, and drove his present; there wasn't a single part of him that hadn't been touched by Tom. There was a time when he had found comfort in being literally inseparable from his best friend - in more ways than one - but now...it felt wrong.

He shivered, and felt sick again, which only unnerved him further. Why was he feeling bad about _thinking_?

Because it wasn't just a passing thought, a niggling in the back of his brain, anymore; it seemed...off, almost on principle. Which was odd. He'd never had principles before that weren't 'cosmetic' in some way - principles that revolved around appearance, or behaviour, or other people; but this principle he suddenly found himself so preoccupied with...it determined who and how he was. And he wasn't even sure that made sense, to be honest.

He was pretty sure there was a word for that. Right, existential crisis. He was having an existential crisis.

But whatever. He had other problems to deal with at the moment.

Well, he had one. But it was one that he had no idea how to deal with, because it felt so different than any other problem he had faced before.

His first reaction was to ignore it and hope it went away – but that would put him at odds with both Tom and Theo...which wasn't ok. Sure, he could probably avoid one-on-one contact with Theo until the holidays, and the inevitable confrontation with Tom could likewise be put off; Tom was far stronger than he had been five years ago, but inhabiting his body and acting as him for two whole days, while trying to heal his deteriorating physical form at least somewhat, had been incredibly taxing, and he had not heard from the man since be left the confines of his mind. How long this would last, he didn't know.

(He didn't dare consider how he felt about it. What was wrong with him?)

So yes, the easiest solution was to pretend nothing was wrong and hope it all just went away; however, that was really not feasible in the long run; Tom would recover eventually and he shared a dorm with Theo.

The second solution, which was equally easy in the sense that he could easily justify it and deal with the detrimental effect on his concept of self-worth on his own time, was to simply do exactly as Tom said. And he almost did that. Everybody won, after all; Tom got his insurance, Theo had...him (whatever that actually was), and he had...well, a distinct lack of conflict...everywhere except in his own head.

And the fact that these were the easiest options was troubling in and of itself; his first instinct when faced with interpersonal conflict was to minimize his presence in it, while optimizing utility for the other parties involved. He always just tried to make things easier for himself, not better, so he had to think, feel, and do less. It was almost as though he wanted to minimize his effect on the world as a whole. Like he didn't even really want to exist.

Bloody existential crisis.

He had a problem, obviously, though it wasn't exactly clear what that was; however, if there was one thing the years of being Tom's perpetually confused pupil/protege/errand boy had taught him, it was that you didn't need to know what a problem was in order to do an excellent job of solving it.

So why not start now?

He made his way straight for the library, resolving to miss breakfast – after all, Theo probably had other things to be worried about at the moment. Once he arrived, he immediately parked himself in the most remote corner of the library that he could possibly find, and took out his diary and quill, dabbing it gingerly in his inkwell.

He froze as his hand lingered above an empty page.

What was the problem?

Well...Tom wanted him to act on the pretence that he was interested in some sort of...relationship with Theo in order to secure the other boy's loyalty. Tom had gone ahead with this plan himself, and began implementing it; meanwhile, poor, oblivious Theo had all but admitted he had feelings for him, and would likely be very hurt if he backed out now. Not to mention Tom's plan would backfire beautifully.

That was the situation, and if he factored himself in, he was faced with a seemingly impossible task:

 _Goals:  
_ _\- Prevent Tom's plan from backfiring._

 _\- Don't hurt Theo._

Well, he could pretend to be in a relationship with Theo without hurting him, couldn't he?

Or could he?

Wasn't he still hurting Theo by lying to him?

Does lying hurt someone even if they never learn the truth?

His eyes widened. He _hated_ the idea of his friends going behind his back and lying to him, and faking their feelings for him. That would be _awful_. Him not knowing wouldn't mean it was hurting him any less; just like cancer could grow inside a body without the victim knowing a thing, couldn't the truth hurt someone without being known by them?

Yes, yes it could.

Something icy and cold trickled down his spine, and before he knew it, he was chilled to the bone, frozen in place.

"No, no, focus, Harry," he muttered. One thing at a time. He could worry about that later - back to the matter at hand.

 _Hypothesis: lying to Theo is hurting him._

He pursed his lips. If he accepted the hypothesis, what conclusion could he draw? What was the correct choice of action?

 _Best solution: to return Theo's feelings and mean it._

Well, easier said than done.

 _Problems:  
_ _\- What, precisely are Theo's feelings?  
_ _\- Do I actually have the same feelings?_

He paused. Was it actually possible for two people with different brains and different experiences to have the same feelings? That would be a bit...odd, wouldn't it?

 _Hypothesis: my feelings don't need to be identical with Theo's - but they need to be compatible._

Ok, now he was getting somewhere.

 _Hypothesis: I can approximate Theo's feelings by assuming that he wants to take the place in my life that a boyfriend/girlfriend would._

And there we go. So as long as he could essentially treat Theo the same way he'd treat a boyfriend or girlfriend, everything would be absolutely fine. After all, it's not like he could ever care about some other person, even if they were in a relationship, more than he cared about his best friend, right?

(When did Theo become his best friend and Tom...something else?)

Luckily, there was a very systematic way to examine this.

 _What I would enjoy doing/be ok with doing..._

Then he defined two columns.

 _With Theo / With a boy/girl/whatever friend_

Ok, good, that was more concrete. He could work with that. Alright, so...the obvious ones:

 _Talking: True / True_

 _Duelling: True / True_

 _Homework: True / True_

 _Dates:_

Harry pursed his lips. What was the definition of a date? Going out and doing things together? There had to be more than that.

 _Dates: need further clarification / True (I guess?)_

 _Dancing: True / True_

Done that, after all. He didn't particularly like dancing, but he enjoyed it with Theo just as much as with anyone else...not that that was saying much.

 _Holding hands:_

Well, they'd already done that too, hadn't they? It was an expression of solidarity, which they definitely had, at this point.

 _Holding hands: True / True_

 _Kissing:_

He wrinkled his nose. It's not really something he was interested in anyway, but he supposed the most reasonable answer was...

 _Kissing: False(?) / (?)_

 _Sexual intercourse:_

Harry grimaced.

 _Sexual intercourse: False / False_

He suddenly felt a swell of amusement inside him, indicating that Tom was, in fact, watching.

"Shut up, Tom, you're no better," Harry hissed.

His face grew slack as his eyes drifted back to his list. He wasn't going to manipulate Theo. That simply wasn't acceptable. Which meant he wouldn't promise anything he couldn't deliver on.

 _Saying 'I love you':_

No lies. Theo deserved better. Even if he couldn't avoid lying to anyone else...Theo deserved better. He was the first person who voluntarily showed any interest in him; he was the first person who _chose_ to be his friend. He wasn't stuck with him like Tom; he didn't owe him his life like Hermione and Draco. He was just there. He was the first person who actually _cared_ when he didn't have anything to gain from it. He owed him...more than he could possibly pay.

 _Saying 'I love you': maybe one day_

What was love, anyway?

Suddenly struck by a completely overwhelming conviction, he flipped through his diary to the page where he held his 'special contracts' – his blank cheques, so to speak – and pointed his wand at Theo's name.

"Anathema purgo."

Suddenly, the letters on the page – Theodore Nott, in slightly clumsy but clear script – started to glow violently red, and then orange, and then yellow, until they were white hot -

His heart skipped a beat, and suddenly his chest exploded with pain and his entire body seized up while the feeling of something trying to rip off all the skin from his body consumed him; a moment later he had fallen off his chair and was on the ground, convulsing as he bit his lip to avoid screaming in pain.

He had no idea how long the fit lasted, but it did eventually subside, leaving him groaning on the library floor, nauseous and teeth chattering.

Immediately aware that equally debilitating pain could very well follow, he rasped out, "Tom -"

He froze, suddenly feeling very...empty.

Harry had no idea whether he should be relieved or terrified. However, he couldn't help but feel a little vindictively satisfied that Tom's cruel decision to mess with both him and Theo had backfired so blatantly on him.

Serves him right.

Coughing slightly, he laboriously lifted his watch in front of his face.

 _8:25_

Alright, good. He had 35 minutes before History of Magic to resolve the remainder of the issue at hand.

Grabbing his invisibility cloak, he stumbled to his feet and threw it over himself, trudging out of the library with drunken accuracy.

It was incredibly painful, but he forced himself to walk swiftly; he had things to do and it had to be done before he found himself within a ten metre radius of Theo. So, wheezing slightly, he stumbled through the doors of the Great Hall and headed straight for the Gryffindor table.

"Psst. Hermione," he hissed.

The poor girl, who had been in the middle of sipping a glass of pumpkin juice, spat it out, choking.

"What the fuck, 'Mione!"

She glared at the boy on the other side of the table. "Language, Ronald!"

The red haired boy snorted.

Snatching a napkin off the table, she began to wipe her face off as she cleared her throat demandingly.

"I need your help," he whispered, "It's really, really important."

He saw her frown slightly.

"Follow me."

He started to walk away, but then he realized that she couldn't see him, so he scuttled back to the table. "I'm leaving the Great Hall."

And with that, he hurried out, waiting for her in the Entrance Hall. As soon as she emerged, he removed the cloak and beckoned her down one of the side corridors.

She crossed her arms once she arrived in front of him, trying to disguise evident concern. "What's this about, Harry?" Then her eyes widened. "Your _nose_ is bleeding!"

Blinking, he reached up and wiped his face, and sure enough, he found blood on his sleeve.

"Your _ears_ are bleeding! There's blood coming out of your ears. What did you _do_?"

Harry opened his mouth, but couldn't think of what to say. "Listen, that's not important right now. I need your help."

"Yes, you said as much," Hermione interjected, slightly hysterical. "But with _what_?"

Harry nodded shakily, withdrawing his diary. "I have some questions, and I need to find answers before nine o'clock."

She stared at him, dread written all over her face. "Why?"

"It's a really long story...just...please, Hermione – I don't have anyone else I can go to."

She bit her lip. "Of course, Harry, whatever you need..."

He nodded determinedly. "Ok. First question, what's the definition of a date?"

Her mouth fell open. " _What?_ "

"The concept of dating someone has suddenly become relevant, and I need to know what it actually means," Harry explained, swaying slightly, "The way I see it is that when it comes to people who aren't 'just friends', there is a collection of behaviours that are typically displayed between people who are 'dating' or 'in a relationship' of some kind. So, if two people display a certain number of these behaviours, it's fair to assume that that they fall into this category, despite how confused or unsure they might be about their feelings. I don't think that's entirely unreasonable, and it's certainly not disingenuous."

Hermione continued to gape.

"Most of it's pretty straight forward, but I don't actually know what a date is...precisely."

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. "You're covered in blood, and you're asking me about _dating_?"

Harry nodded miserably. "I know how this might look -"

"No, no you don't," Hermione said, "You have _no_ idea how this looks. _I_ have no idea how this looks, and I'm staring right at it."

Harry sighed. "C'mon, Hermione, this is really, really important. More important than basically anything that's happened in recent memory."

Her eyebrows rose, before she sighed in resignation. "I'll answer your question -"

Harry's face lit up.

"- on one condition."

Harry's face fell. "What is it?" he asked with dread in his voice.

"You follow me to Madame Pomfrey right after."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but found that he didn't have the energy to. "Ok, fine. But you have to answer all my questions."

"Deal," she said curtly.

He nodded back curtly. "So. The definition of a date."

Hermione looked immensely put off. "It's basically when two people who are, as you say, 'in a relationship', make specific plans with the primary purpose of spending time together and advancing the relationship by building memories together that strengthen the relationship. Common activities in the muggle world include going to the cinema, eating dinner together, having picnics, or going to concerts."

Harry nodded slowly. "So there's not actually a specific behavioural code, then? It's more an intent thing – you're making plans specifically so you can spend time together and get to know each other better in the absence of usual distractions."

"Yes," Hermione bit out.

"Splendid," Harry said, vanishing _need further clarification_ and replacing it with _True_. "And finally, do you think that kissing and sexual intercourse are fundamental parts of being in a relationship with someone?"

"No!" Hermione said, outraged.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "No?"

"Honestly! Boys!"

Harry really didn't know what to say to that, so he settled on, "...ok."

Hermione huffed exasperatedly. "No, I'm sorry, I'm being sexist. What I mean is...there are lots of different kinds of relationships, Harry. It's not just the few months leading up to, 'you may kiss the bride' and the honeymoon. There are lots of different kinds of love."

"I know that," Harry said, annoyed, "Obviously platonic love is different than erotic love -"

"But it's more than that," Hermione interjected, "There's a difference between being 'just friends' and loving someone platonically."

Harry frowned.

"Think about it, Harry - what does it mean to fall in love?"

Harry hesitated. "Well, it sounds rather inescapable."

Hermione nodded urgently. "Exactly! It's being drawn into a deep connection...so why couldn't two people can fall in love even if their love is platonic? Theoretically, two people could date, get married, raise children, and be together for the rest of their lives in a healthy, loving relationship without ever having sex or even kissing, couldn't they? They wouldn't even have to feel any kind of romantic love."

Harry's eyes widened. "I've...never heard of that."

Hermione scowled. "No, nobody does, this is _exactly_ what I was talking to Adina about the other day - because everybody equates romance with love and sex with passion, and refuses to acknowledge any other kind of relationship, which is simply closed-minded and unimaginative to say the least. And it's stupid. Just stupid. People are so, so -"

Harry held his hands up. "Ok, just – calm down. I get it. That makes – perfect sense. Equivocation is an awful fallacy, I know."

Hermione blinked. "Well, yes. I'm glad you understand."

Harry smiled wanly.

"Is that it?"

"Um, I think so."

"Good. We're going to the infirmary now."

Harry sighed.

* * *

Thankfully, Madame Pomfrey didn't find anything wrong with him; in fact, despite his most recent... misfortune, he was apparently in better shape than when she'd last seen him. Tom did good work (not that he'd expect any less).

She was extremely suspicious, of course - he was fairly sure she recognized the signs of casting very dark magic at this point in her career - but she didn't actually find anything to confirm her suspicions, and he was released just in time to jog to History of Magic with an extremely sour Hermione (honestly, it was almost like she _wanted_ him to get in trouble), where he found his place beside Theo feeling...pleasantly optimistic.

Once Binns was well into his droning, Harry opened his notebook and flipped to the page labelled as _Theodore Nott_.

 _Hi._

In the corner of his eye, he saw Theo frown and glance down at his hand, before fishing his notebook out of his book bag and flipping through the pages. He saw a blush creep up on Theo's cheeks when he found the page labelled _Harry Potter_.

 _Hi._

Harry smiled slightly.

 _I should have apologized last night._

Theo froze.

 _For what?_

Harry pursed his lips.

 _I shouldn't have said anything. I'm not going to the ball...it was cruel to rub it in._

Theo stared at the piece of paper for a moment, an unreadable look on his face.

 _Yeah, it was._

Harry felt a stab of guilt, wondering what Tom could have said to make Theo so blatantly bitter.

 _I...wasn't thinking straight. I wasn't myself._

Theo's face remained unmoved.

 _That much was obvious._

 _I wasn't lying though._

Theo froze again.

 _What do you mean?_

Harry suddenly realized that his heart was beating much faster than normal. This was going to be...tricky. He agreed with Hermione, of course, about relationships not exactly being the most straightforward thing...but communicating that to Theo tactfully...

 _I'm not completely opposed to attending balls._

Theo stared at the paper, but wrote nothing.

 _Which you know, of course, because I already attended one...with you._

Theo's face remain remained unmoved.

 _There's a difference between going to the same ball and going to a ball together._

 _I mean, technically..._

 _Shut up, Harry. You're not funny._

Harry grinned a little.

 _You're right. I'm sorry._

 _And technically the only person you actually danced with was Daphne._

Harry grimaced at the palpable bitterness.

 _And proceeded to complain about it after you got me drunk._

Theo smiled slightly.

 _True._

Harry relaxed a little.

 _In all fairness, dancing is hard. And let's face it, I don't cope well with failure._

 _Understatement._

 _You don't have to rub it in._

Theo grinned a little.

 _You weren't so bad._

 _People are better at things they enjoy._

 _You hate dancing. You made that pretty clear after your fifth glass of champagne._

 _Not with you._

Theo stared at the piece of paper for a long moment.

Harry decided to elaborate.

 _I mean, I'm still not much of a dancer, but at least it's bearable when it's with you. Your patience is saintlike, after all._

Theo shook his head.

 _You were doing ok, for a moment there._

Harry almost laughed, probably out of relief.

 _Just being honest. And while I'm being honest...I prefer duelling. And then hot chocolate. Just saying._

Theo's eyes widened, and his hands began to shake ever so slightly.

 _I don't understand._

 _Neither do I._

 _Harry Potter doesn't understand something to do with people's feelings? I'm baffled._

Harry rolled his eyes.

 _Look, if you're not interested, fine._

 _You're a bastard._

 _I think that might say more about you at this point._

 _Whatever, Harry._

 _Harry: 1, Theo: 0_

 _I'm definitely not at 0._

Harry thought about this for a moment.

 _I think we might be 3 for 3 at this point, actually._

 _Exactly._

 _Well, there's a first time for everything._

 _You're horrible and I hate you._

 _No you don't._

 _No, I don't._

* * *

The rest of the week flew by quickly, and before he knew it, he was on the Hogwarts Express, pulling into King's Cross station.

In the end, he had persuaded Theo to attend the ball with Daphne, assuring him that no, it wasn't actually pathetic, he had just been in a mood at the time. A very, very bad mood and it would never happen again (he hoped).

Hermione and Adina, of course, were still fussing about how to coordinate dresses, makeup, and hairstyles when he left (neither of them had ever been concerned about those things before, so Harry wasn't sure why they were making such a big deal about it _now_ , especially since he thought they both looked perfectly good without them...but he decided it would be prudent not to investigate further), and Draco had finally given in and asked Pansy. Interestingly, neither seemed too happy about it, but likely for different reasons. As far as he knew, Tracey was going with Michael Corner and Zabini was taking an older Ravenclaw girl. Millicent, to everyone's shock, had accepted the invitation of Ernie Macmillian, a Hufflepuff.

All in all, everyone seemed quite pleased; even Theo and Daphne were quite excited, having made plans to spike the punch and sabotage god knows what else (he had put them in touch with the Weasley twins on a whim, and to his surprise, they hit it off, so to speak). As a result, Harry was feeling quite satisfied, and quite ready to put aside all Hogwarts-related drama and focus on the task at hand.

Because honestly, who cared about school dances when they had premeditated murder to commit with their new surrogate father-figure?

Only an idiot, that's who. Or a boring person.

He, however, was neither.

Sirius, as promised, was waiting for him right outside the station in a vintage-looking leather jacket, leaning on his perfectly polished motorcycle, a winning smirk on his face.

"Looking sharp, kiddo – for a slimy snake, that is."

Harry glanced down at what had become his typical winter outfit; chelsea boots and black jeans, a black, knee-length overcoat, and his Slytherin scarf. He thought it was very reasonable winter attire, and Theo approved, which counted for something now, he supposed. "Thanks, I think."

Sirius barked out a laugh. "Trunk?"

"Shrunken, and in my pocket," Harry answered.

"Excellent." Sirius tossed a helmet over to him. "Well, get on."

Harry smiled and fastened the helmet onto his head, mounting the bike behind Sirius.

* * *

"So," Sirius said, swallowing another mouthful of kung-pao chicken, "Made your first transformation?"

Harry nodded eagerly. "About a week ago. Flew over the Black Lake and the Forbidden Forest and everything – it was brilliant!"

Sirius grinned at him, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "I'm really happy for you, kiddo." He sighed wistfully, "I still remember my first time – we celebrated, of course – and Merlin, was that a night to remember."

Harry's eyebrows rose, and Sirius cast him a lopsided grin. "We'll have to head out to the country before you go back to school, transform and explore."

Harry smiled at him, before involuntarily turning back to the television, where a high-speed car-chase was taking place; Sirius had procured a copy of _The Terminator_ on VHS, and they were currently watching it in the drawing room, while eating Chinese fast food. Dobby was distracting Kreacher (who truly despised the television) in the kitchen with a rousing game of gobstones.

Meanwhile, Khor was lazily napping in front of the hearth, apparently exhausted after having cursed at Harry earlier with a long string of expletives (apparently his way of conveying that he missed him?), but Naya, at least, had been pleased to see him, and was wrapped around his neck, and chatting absently in parseltongue.

His snakes were weird. He supposed it was fitting.

Twenty minutes and a bucket of chow mein and fried rice later, the movie had ended, and Sirius had poured them both a glass of scotch. Having accepted the fact that this was Sirius's way of celebrating any kind of occasion that was remotely significant to him (and a prerequisite for plotting murder and mayhem), he accepted without question this time.

"You said you found Peter...and Voldemort," he said, after savouring his first sip.

Harry nodded slowly. "A village called Little Hangleton – I heard Pettigrew mention the name. It looks like they're in a large, old house, a mile or so outside of the centre of the town. It should be secluded and easy to access without being seen."

Sirius took another sip of his scotch. "Excellent. We'll go in a week."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "On Christmas? Remus will be arriving on Christmas or Boxing Day, won't he?"

"Good point. Let's make it Christmas Eve, then."

Harry frowned. "Why not just go, I don't know, tomorrow?"

Sirius smirked at him slightly. "Because I want to give you the chance to take advantage of your Christmas present, first."

Harry's frown deepened. "Take advantage...of my Christmas present? I thought we weren't doing presents. Because Christmas is stupid...remember?"

Christmas had come up at some point during the summer, and Harry had relayed his resentment for the holiday, which Sirius actually shared; they concluded that they would use it as an excuse to see Remus and nothing more.

Meanwhile, Sirius smirked, and then abruptly leapt to his feet. "Follow me."

Bewildered, Harry did as his godfather said, and followed him as he marched down the stairs to the entrance way, hung a left, and continued to trudge downward, past the kitchen, until they reached the heavy doorway to the cellar, which Harry had never actually entered; he'd always assumed it was mostly full of cobwebs and cursed objects and old paintings that had gone a bit too mad...which made him wonder why Sirius would hide a present there, let alone willingly enter it.

Sirius drew his wand and waved it in a complicated pattern, and a moment later the door creaked open and Sirius strode inside, Harry following.

Immediately, the sensation of being showered with ice water crept over his skin, soaking through him down to the bone and then dispersing.

"Those are some powerful wards," Harry said in awe, looking around the dark room curiously. "What are you hiding down here?"

Sirius looked over his shoulder and smirked at him. "Oh, nothing, just...you."

Harry's eyes widened, and he took a step back in alarm.

But Sirius burst out laughing. "Oh, kiddo, you should have seen your face."

Harry scowled.

Suddenly, Sirius grimaced. "Wow, I, uh, just realized how that could have sounded. Well, I've made a complete arse of myself."

Harry shrugged. "As long as you don't mean to tie me up down here and feed me canned soup for the rest of my life, we're good."

Sirius smiled awkwardly. "Right, well, anyway, these are very, very special wards, and they're paired with these very, very special wands," Sirius explained, picking up two very inconspicuous looking wands off the table. "Believe me when I say that I went through a lot of trouble to put this together."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And what's _this_?"

"Here, catch."

Sirius tossed one of the wands at him, and Harry's hand darted out to catch it. Once again, he was consumed by a cold, wet feeling; it soaked through his fingertips and crawled up his arm, creeping up his neck and down his torso.

"Now cast a spell."

Harry looked at him incredulously. "I can't do magic outside of school, Sirius."

Sirius looked beyond pleased, however. "You can...as long as you stay in this room, and use that wand."

Harry's mouth fell open, and he looked at the wand in his hand in complete and utter awe. "Can I..."

"Go ahead."

Harry raised the wand. " _Expecto Patronum_."

Immediately, a ghostly white owl burst forth from the tip of his wand, and began to soar about the dark cellar, illuminating it just enough to reveal various obstacles and barriers and dummies, which had been set up around the room.

When the owl finally faded from sight, Sirius whistled softly. "Well, Moony was certainly right."

Harry frowned. "About what?"

Sirius smiled with uncharacteristic softness. "Lily would have loved it."

Harry's lips parted but whatever response he had to that quickly died in his throat and was promptly forgotten.

"Anyway," Sirius said after a moment, "We've got three things on the agenda this week: straight up duelling, to teach you some endurance and strategy, and, well, get you used to real combat; duelling without a wand, to prepare you for the worst case scenario...which, considering you can't do magic outside of this room, is inevitable; and focusing on one simple spell so that can be used wandlessly, and to great destructive effect in combat; you know your ace in the hole."

Harry, practically jittering with excitement, grinned. "When do we start?"

"First thing tomorrow."

"Brilliant."

* * *

Harry pressed his back against the cold cellar wall, trying desperately to catch his breath.

He was losing.

So maybe he'd been a little over-confident. In his defence, how could he not be? The only experience he had with duelling was duelling other fourth years and watching Tom's memories of him wiping the floor with people...which were both fairly one-sided experiences. So no, it wasn't completely unreasonable, just...egregiously presumptuous and naive; thinking he could keep up with an auror, that is.

So yeah. He was an idiot.

"Come on, Harry, you're not ready to give up already, are you?" Sirius taunted cheerfully.

"No, Sirius, I'm not," he snapped irritably.

Sirius barked out a laugh.

Clearly...clearly he needed to rethink things.

Sirius was faster than him, and his reflexes were better. Maybe not in general, but they weren't exactly catching snitches here, and he was quickly discovering that being generally faster than everybody else didn't count for much when you're duelling aurors.

Ok, he could do this. He could. All he had to do was think; that was the point of this, after all. Sirius could cast hexes faster than he could but he couldn't run as quickly, and he had cover.

Struck by an idea, he pointed his wand at the long barrier in front of him, making a sweeping motion. " _Flammarum Inextinguibilio_!" he hissed quietly.

He heard Sirius laugh and exclaim, "Already on the defensive, are we Harry?" indicating that he'd taken the bait.

So he cast a disillusionment charm over himself and darted around the barrier as Sirius came over to examine it. The man noticed a moment too late, and Harry managed to call out, " _Reducto! Expulso_!" as he dove for the barrier on the other side of the room.

But Sirius's _protego_ was almost instantly followed by a leg-locking jinx, which violently halted his flight.

Casting a wordless _finite_ in between shielding charms, he managed to undo the jinx while his feet were still in the air, narrowly avoiding tripping as he continued toward the barrier.

" _Bombarda Supra Maxima!"_

Well that might have been...a bit much.

Meanwhile, Sirius took aim once again – which took a moment, because he had cast a dissilusionment spell on himself in the wake of his magically induced explosion – giving Harry time to complete his flight and aim as well.

 _"Interfodio!"_

 _"Reducto!"_

But as he was aiming, Harry waved his other hand, sending the barrier hurtling straight toward Sirius.

 _"Expulso!"_

He'd done it! He'd managed to lure Sirius close enough on the pretense that he was rushing for cover, and now he wouldn't have time to throw up a massive enough shield and -

But Sirius stepped aside with expert ease and flicked his wand, causing the barrier to flip forward, bouncing back and then up again – right for Harry.

Eyes widening, Harry took a split second to process what had just happened, and that split second was enough to -

" _Accio godson_!"

A moment later, Harry was thrown toward his godfather, coming to rest with a sharp thud at his feet.

Slightly dazed, Harry didn't fight when his wand was plucked from between his fingers.

"I win," Sirius said with a grin.

Harry looked at him blankly.

Sirius chuckled. "You alright kiddo? Fifteen minutes is a long duel, and you took a few nasty blows."

"...you should have just let me die."

Sirius barked out a laugh.

* * *

Harry flopped onto his bed, groaning as seemingly every muscle in his body protested with every movement.

 _:Are you dying?:_

Something Harry had picked up over the years was that snakes used the terms 'dying', 'aging', and 'ill' interchangeably to describe non-visible ailments, despite the fact that they were all different words in parseltongue. If he had more time on his hands, he really would like to do a linguistics project on parseltongue...maybe the life of an academic was the one for him. He was beginning to despise physical activity of all kinds.

: _No, Naya. I'm already dead. On the inside.:_

The little snake rose up off the bed, tongue flicking out anxiously

 _:How long until your outside dies too?:_

Harry grimaced. : _Maybe not that long, at this rate.:_

Naya looked very distraught now, and Harry started to feel very bad.

 _:You shouldn't worry, Naya - it's just a metaphor humans use to show they're discouraged. I'm fine, just...tired.:_

Naya stared at him for a moment - sometimes he got the impression that she was actually a very perceptive creature; she just didn't quite know how to put her perceptions into words - before slithering onto his chest and closing her eyes. Sighing, he did the same, knowing that sleep would likely not follow.

If he had thought the next week would be _fun_ , he had been gravely mistaken.

Sirius was a _slave drive_ r, and it only just occurred a few days ago to him how grateful he should be that Tom didn't have a physical body to train him with yet. Duelling Tom would be...

He didn't want to think about it.

Speaking of Tom, he was still largely absent, but occasionally made himself known to rub Harry's mistakes in his face; he was immensely pleased with the whole thing. Apparently, Sirius was giving him a crash-course on auror combat. Which was awesome...but painful. So, so painful.

It wasn't all dreadful, of course. Sirius had told him to pick one first year spell, which they were going to push to its limit; the result would be an easy spell that would be quick to cast, but would hold the destructive potential of a much more powerful spell; Sirius called this 'casting overload'. He'd chosen incendio, because, well, fire. He was good at that.

Really, really good.

Incinerating things was a good stress reliever, and reminded him that he was actually good at something. It was an easy thing to forget, of late.

The duels in which he was wandless and Sirius wasn't weren't so bad, either, to be honest. They focused on form and strategy rather than force and practice; Sirius himself wasn't too adept at wandless casting, and seemed to think Harry would do just fine on his own. Still, he got a taste of just how difficult it would be to face off against an armed wizard empty handed, and that was...sobering, to say the least. If Sirius had been actually trying to hurt him...well, he really wouldn't have stood a chance.

The duels with wands were the worst, though, because Sirius was determined to push him to his limits, with those, and felt little compulsion to hold back, apparently. He taught him a few spells, discussed a few strategies, and educated him in the purely physical aspects of duelling, such as stances and efficient movement; but these sessions mostly involved Harry nearly dying.

Well maybe not nearly dying, but it certainly felt like that sometimes.

Sirius tripped him, stunned him, tarred and feathered him, transfigured him into reptiles and small, fluffy animals, tied him up in pink satin bows, and basically did anything that popped into his head that wouldn't cause permanent damage. He had a penchant for winning duels with rather humiliating spells, as well, which he seemed to think was outrageously funny, but Harry disagreed...though he kept his mouth shut about it, to retain what dignity he had left.

Dignity. What a concept.

He felt so incredibly defeated, and it wasn't the kind of defeat he could just accept. It wasn't failure as he knew it; there were no real consequences to losing. No punishment waited for him to make him feel both horrible and...well, redeemed.

No this was far more simple; it was losing, and that was it - an absence of winning. And it didn't feel good to work so hard at something and never win. It didn't feel good to try with so much fervour for the sheer purpose of winning, and have nothing, positive or negative, to show for it. It didn't feel good to know he was going to fail but feel like he had to keep trying anyway.

Sure, he got _sort of_ close a few times, and landed a few really good hits, but it would be unacceptable if he didn't, given how much he practised.

Sirius was no Dumbledore, and no Voldemort; he was, by all accounts, an exceptional wizard, who completed his auror training in a third of the time it took most people, but he was still merely human. He hadn't ascended to the god-like status that Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Voldemort had...and those were the people he had to compete with. Those were the threats, those were his goal, his destiny, and his responsibility.

Tom wasn't much help, when he bothered to show up (he knew the older wizard was absent for a reason, but that didn't stop him from becoming a target of resentment) – he simply smugly informed him that he had a long way to go, still, and that he simply wasn't good enough. 'Yet' was implied, but Tom was never one to comfort him.

And...he could have used a bit of comfort, if he was being completely honest. He felt pathetic, and childish, but he was ashamed that he wasn't better, and it made him feel...directionless. Like he was pointless.

Like -

 _Knock-knock-knock._

He blinked blearily, frowning.

"Come in," he croaked out.

The door opened quietly, and a moment later Sirius entered.

Harry groaned. "Don't tell me it's Wednesday already -"

Sirius barked out a laugh. "No, kiddo, it's still Tuesday - you've only been in bed for fifteen minutes.

Harry scowled. "Then what are you waking me up for?"

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Well, for one thing, you weren't actually sleeping."

"Mere technicality."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Sure. Just wanted to let you know - you've got the day off, tomorrow."

Harry frowned, before placing Naya on his pillow and sitting up. "I don't think I've done anything to deserve a day off, Sirius - my performance today was suboptimal to say the least -"

Sirius held up a hand. "First thing, Harry, your performance wasn't 'suboptimal'. None of your performances have been 'suboptimal' - it's clear to me that you've been trying your hardest all week -"

Harry opened his mouth to argue.

"- and that's what matters, here."

"I haven't won any duels," Harry objected, "I haven't gotten any better."

Sirius smiled wryly. "I know it feels that way - believe me, I do - but you have gotten better. You're a fast learner. But that's not what this is about. This isn't about passing some test or mastering a technique. This isn't about learning spells or refining your skill. If it was, I'd hold back, and give you a chance to actually practise the new things you've learned...not that you haven't mastered most of them already."

Harry frowned. "I….don't understand what the point is, then."

"The point is...I haven't been holding back much at all. But Voldemort won't either."

Harry's mouth snapped shut, and he tensed.

Sirius's grey eyes met his, and he didn't think he'd ever seen them so grey before; they'd always had a silvery shimmer, a slight blue tint. Something lively and mischievous. But this grey...it was truly grey; a somber, grim colour.

"I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you because you didn't understand what you're up against; because you didn't understand just how much more dangerous and merciless the world becomes when you step outside the walls of Hogwarts."

Sirius reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Four fifths of auror trainees either drop out or are weeded out during the four-year program. This isn't because they're bad witches and wizards; it's because talent has nothing to do with whether or not you make it out alive."

Harry dared to continue to look him in the eye, and as he stared, he started to catch glimpses of grief, and fear, and something else he didn't recognize.

"It's luck, Harry, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. It's circumstance, it's context – it's luck. And the ones who survive are the ones who make their own luck. And that only comes with practice. It comes with going through tough shit over and over again until nothing phases you anymore; until the peril fades into normalcy and luck becomes mundane. The old saying 'practice makes perfect' doesn't always mean that putting more time into something will better your skills; sometimes, it means that the only way to get something right is to make it part of you - to make fighting and hurting and fighting some more as natural as breathing. There are no shortcuts, no tricks, no easy ways out; if you want to survive, you do it right. You do it completely."

Harry stared at him for a long moment, before nodding determinedly.

Sirius smirked. "Not to mention, we're partners in crime, now – I can't have some inexperienced Hogwarts student watching my back."

Harry gave him a half-smile.

"So," Sirius said, "Get a nice long sleep, wake up late, read or do homework or whatever your little nerdy heart desires tomorrow, and then we'll get a couple days more of practice in."

Harry nodded, smile grown into a full one now. "Thanks Sirius."

Sirius smiled sadly, shaking his head. "Thank me when you're old and grey."

And with that he left, leaving Harry staring at an empty doorway, wondering what exactly his godfather had meant by that.

* * *

By the time Christmas Eve rolled around Harry was feeling much more confident. Yes, he still couldn't get close to winning a duel with Sirius without resorting to very dirty tricks (and even that only worked the first time), but he could say with certainty that he was far, far more equipped to deal with the many threats to his life than he was a week ago. That obviously wasn't enough (as Tom repeatedly showed up to inform him)...but it was a start.

So it was with newfound confidence in his combative abilities that he sidelong apparated with Sirius to the outskirts of Little Hangleton, appearing in the graveyard, where Riddle House loomed up in the distance.

"Cheery place," Sirius muttered, disillusioning himself and beginning the trudge toward the old mansion. "I can see why Voldemort chose it – it's very him."

Harry chuckled and followed Sirius's lead, fading into nothingness a moment later.

It was a short walk up to the house, and when they arrived at the front door, Sirius began casting wards around the property, to prevent any unwanted visitors from coming across them (and their dastardly plot).

Then he smirked. "Ready to deliver some Christmas cheer?"

Harry's lips twitched. "We're a bit early, Padfoot."

Sirius glanced down at his watch and shrugged. "Only by four hours. They'll survive."

"Except, they won't," Harry pointed out with a smirk.

Sirius barked out a laugh. "Right you are, Blackwing, right you are."

Harry could not stifle a grin. He had shamelessly chosen Richard Grayson's alter-ego as his Marauder name, at first, and he was immensely pleased about it, but Tom also caught the reference (proving that he _was_ paying attention when Harry read his comics, which gave him immense satisfaction), and summoned the strength to insist he change it. So he chose Blackwing, which was apparently acceptable.

"Now, would you like to do the honours, my feathered friend, or shall I?"

"Why, Padfoot, why don't we share the glory?"

"A splendid idea, Blackwing, quite splendid indeed. On my count, then – three, two, one!"

Both of them shot a wordless _Bombarda Maxima_ at the front door of Riddle House, which they figured was sure to get someone's attention.

They both waited on either side of the broken down door – and sure enough, a few minutes later, a massive snake slithered out of the house swiftly, stopping short when it approached the end of the porch, and then turning around and rearing its head at Harry and Sirius.

Sirius wasted no time in casting a reductor curse at the snake, which made it recoil, but did no other visible damage.

"It's bloody huge!" Sirius exclaimed incredulously. "I mean, what the -"

"Padfoot!"

The snake had lunged toward him.

 _Diffindo!_ Harry cried mentally.

The snake paused and recoiled briefly once again, but showed no other signs of being affected.

Meanwhile, Sirius shot off another wordless curse, sending the snake flying backward.

 _Interfodio!_ Harry cast, but to no avail.

The snake dove at him, but was forced off course by Sirius's blasting charm, which Harry followed by an _expulso_ , which sent the snake flying once again...which seemed to do nothing but make it angrier.

"Blackwing, cast that a few more times," Sirius cried.

Harry nodded determinedly, and cast in quick succession, _Expulso! Expulso! Expulso!_

Meanwhile, Sirius flourished his wand and cast the firestorm charm, conjuring a great crimson flame that he whipped around the snake, enclosing her in a massive wall of flame.

"What the bloody hell," Sirius gasped, unnerved. "It's fucking invincible."

Harry looked at the circle of fire, unnerved. Why would Voldemort put such strong protections on a pet?

Unless...unless it wasn't a pet.

He wouldn't...would he? Surely he wasn't _that_ lonely...

 _"You."_

Harry and Sirius both whipped around to see Peter Pettigrew standing in the doorway, looking terrified.

"Accio Peter!" Sirius growled before the man could turn and run.

The man flew over and collapsed onto the grass in front of Sirius, who kicked him viciously in the abdomen.

Pettigrew, however, recovered quickly and cast a curse up at Sirius, who just managed to throw himself out of the way.

Just as the two men stood and straightened into duelling stances, however, the snake came hurtling through the flames, right toward Sirius.

" _Confringo!_ " Harry cried.

The snake - Nagini, he suddenly recalled - dodged out of the way, and changed course.

 _"Confringo! Confringo!"_ he cried, beginning to run. "Padfoot! I'll distract it! Take down Pettigrew!"

Not waiting for an answer, Harry fled into the house and up the nearest stairway, hissing as he went, _:Come and get me, Nagini! Keep up, you fat, ugly snake!:_

As he predicted, the snake was too curious to resist, and came flying after him.

After the first stairway, Harry skidded to the left and dove into the first open room he could find. As soon as Nagini followed behind him, he slammed the door shut behind her with a wave of his hand, and a mental call of _Colloportus_.

Meanwhile, Nagini lifted her head from the ground, hissing at him menacingly. _:You foolish little speaker-boy. Do you not see what you've done?:_

Harry raised an eyebrow. _:And what have I done, you tadpole-eating bottom-feeder?:_ he asked amusedly, borrowing Khor's vocabulary, which seemed to infuriate the snake.

 _:You dare insult the great Nagini!:_ the snake hissed furiously, _:You must be incredibly dimwitted, you ugly Neanderthal, to lock yourself in a room with one as great and terrible as I.:_

Harry smirked. Apparently the snake had inherited some of Voldemort's ego. _:You neglect to acknowledge, though, one very important fact, you overgrown gardening hose.:_

 _:And what is that, you two-legged swine?:_ the snake spat, preparing to strike.

Harry's smirk grew. _:That you are also trapped in here with me.:_ His smile grew malicious. _"Legillimens!"_

He dove into the snake's mind, and just like he had predicted, he slid inside with ease, because she was just like him – a horcrux.

He saturated her simple mind with his own consciousness, quickly and ruthlessly taking control. And as soon as he managed to suppress her entirely, as she mentally shrieked in agony, he did the first thing that came to mind; he began slamming her head against the floor repeatedly. He threw her skull against the floor again, and again, and again, until everything went black and he was thrown back into his own mind.

He blinked blearily, finding himself collapsed on the floor in front of the unconscious snake. He winced, pinching his eyes shut. "Owww..." he moaned.

He felt a very distinct burst of amusement.

"Shut up, Tom," Harry moaned. "Your callousness is hurting my head."

Somehow, he knew Tom was laughing.

Groaning, Harry got slowly to his feet, casting _petrificus totalis_ on the snake, before casting _reducio_ on her and placing her gently in his backpack and sealing it shut.

He then went over to the window, and saw Sirius and Pettigrew duelling; Sirius looked like he was having a grand old time, and Pettigrew was looking a little – and by that he meant a lot – worse for wear. Satisfied, he unlocked the door and decided to search for Voldemort.

Tom whispered quiet instructions in his head to guide him to the room where they had seen his master soul seated in front of the hearth; up the staircase one more flight and down a decrepit, dusty old hallway decorated by portraits.

When he reached the room at the very end, he opened the door slowly, finding the back of Voldemort's red velvet chair facing him, sitting between him and a merrily dancing fire.

"Wormtail?" the creature behind the chair hissed, sounding more than a little annoyed. "What is that disturbance outside?"

 _Expelliarmus._

He must have caught the creature off guard, because the wand it had been holding flew easily into his hand, and he gripped it tightly in his left hand as his right reached forward to focus as much magic as he possibly could without a wand.

"Who is there?" Voldemort hissed, his high, thin voice hoarse with both fury and foreboding.

Harry hesitated for a split second. This was…

Not as significant as he had expected it to be. So simple; so easy; it was like he didn't even have to think -

 _"Incendio."_

The words just...slipped out.

The effect was instantaneous; the rug and the chair burst into violent, roaring flames, accompanied by an inhuman shriek that howled and howled with abandon as he watched in bald curiosity as the heat licked at his skin.

And then suddenly, the howls vanished, a great grey smoke erupted from behind the chair, forming the shape of a serpentine man with glaring red eyes. The figure hovered for a moment, staring at him in something that seemed vaguely like awe, before fury took over, and it shrieked violently, before flying out the window.

Closing his eyes, Harry willed the fire to die away, and what was left was the mere skeleton of a chair. With a strangely casual trepidation, Harry inched his way forward, recoiling when he saw what sat in the chair. It was the charred effigy of an infant-like creature, skeletal and grotesque, slouching, face twisted in agony.

Just then, Sirius barged into the room, panting.

"Sorry," he gasped. "I got distracted and -"

"It's ok, Padfoot," Harry said quietly. "It's done."

Sirius's eyes widened, and he slowly made his way to where Harry was standing, shivering at what he saw lying in what was once a red velvet chair.

He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"You're not – you're not a murderer, kiddo," he said softly. "He – it – wasn't even human."

Harry nodded mutely. "Where's Pettigrew?" he asked after a moment.

Sirius's eyes hardened. "Down in the dining room. Stunned and bound."

Harry nodded. "Let's do this."

And with that they both turned away, not casting another glance over their shoulders as they silently traversed the long and dusty hallway, descending the creaking staircase at the end of it.

At the bottom they found themselves in a large entrance hall, where Peter Pettigrew was lying unconscious on a rug, bound by ropes.

Sirius pointed his wand at him. " _Rennervate_."

Pettigrew jolted awake and looked at them in terror.

"Sirius," he gasped immediately, apparently quite aware of his situation, "Please -" Tears welled up in his eyes. "Sirius – you don't have to do this, it's just me, it's me Peter – your friend, your old friend -"

Sirius stared down at him coldly, disgust written all over his face, before it stretched into a parody of a smile. "Friend? Ha! You're funny, Peter, you were always funny." He scowled viciously. "Friends don't lie."

Harry felt a stab of guilt.

"Friends don't betray. Friends don't abandon the good, kind people who loved them to save their own skin. Friends don't let their friends die because they're a worthless coward. Friends don't FUCKING BETRAY THEIR FRIENDS TO VOLDEMORT!"

Pettigrew recoiled, looking terrified for a moment, before his gaze flew over to Harry.

"Harry...Harry...you look just like your father...just like him..."

"HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO HARRY?" Sirius roared. "HOW DARE YOU FACE HIM? HOW DARE YOU TALK ABOUT JAMES IN FRONT OF HIM!"

"Harry," Pettigrew whimpered, seeming not to have heard Sirius at all, grasping at thin air towards him, "James wouldn't have wanted me killed...James would have understood, Harry...he would have shown me mercy..."

Sirius looked like he was about to start shouting again, which Harry really didn't know if his head could handle at the moment, so he spoke up, his voice soft and determined; determined to mean absolutely everything he was about to say.

He'd been responsible for the deaths of...too many people, by now. It was hard to think about; but it was even harder to consider...that they all meant nothing. Collateral damage. Accidentally on purpose.

Sometimes he felt less like a murderer and more like a flash flood or a stray bolt of lightening; a spot of bad luck for someone unlucky enough to stand in his way. It was his fault, all of it...but he never meant for it to happen. He never meant to hurt anyone, but ended up doing it anyway. And somehow, that felt worse than just being a killer, and meaning it.

But today...today he meant it.

"Maybe. Maybe my father was a good, merciful man," he began, not really choosing his words; just musing aloud.

Pettigrew nodded rapidly.

"Maybe he wouldn't have wanted his dearest friend to become a murderer for the sake of a spineless, worthless coward, and maybe he wouldn't have let someone he once cared for be killed in cold blood."

Sirius tensed beside him, while Pettigrew continued to nod desperately.

Harry exhaled a shuddering breath. "But I'm not my father. I never knew him, and if he was a good man, he never got the chance to teach me how to be one. I'm not my father. I'm not anything like my father." He smiled grimly, meeting Pettigrew's pale and glassy blue eyes. "And whose fault is that?"

Despair engulfed Pettigrew entirely and he began to shake, eyes darting desperately between Sirius and Harry.

"It's over, Peter," Sirius said quietly, switching the two wands in his hands. He pointed an unfamiliar wand in his right hand at Pettigrew, grey eyes cold as frozen steel when he pronounced clearly, " _Avada Kedavra_."

A rush of green, and it was over.

They both stared at the motionless body, as it ever so slowly grew cold, until Harry said, "What now?"

"Burn it, I suppose," Sirius said absently, "Might as well burn the whole place down."

Somehow, Harry didn't think Tom would mind all that much.

* * *

"I've never used that curse before, and I'll never use it again, and I - " Sirius gulped down the rest of the scotch in his hand, before pouring himself another glass "- I used it on that worthless coward. I swore I'd never, that I'd never be like them – and I wasted it on him."

Harry took a sip of his own glass of scotch. They were sitting in the drawing room of Number 12 Grimmauld place, and a smouldering hearth was the only light in the dark room, just barely illuminating the grandfather clock in the corner, revealing that the minute hand had just passed the X mark, while the hour hand was nearing XII.

"It doesn't have to be like that," he returned quietly, "Don't regret it; dedicate it to their memory."

"But he was right, you know," Sirius said bitterly, "It's not what they would have wanted – not James, and certainly not Lily. It's an insult to their memory."

"It doesn't have to be like that," Harry repeated, "They're not here anymore, and we're not the people we would be if they were here. We've done what we can to move on, to set things right...and it's not because we're selfish or cruel – it's because..." He swallowed. "It's because we loved them, and lost them. And because we're only human."

He didn't know if he believed his own words; it just seemed like the right thing to say.

Sirius smiled sadly. "When did you get so wise?"

"I..." Harry's mouth was suddenly very dry. "I've just thought about it a lot. About how disappointed they would be in me."

Sirius turned to face him, then, something furious burning in his eyes. "They would _not_ be disappointed."

Harry looked away, but Sirius immediately commanded, "Look at me."

Reluctantly, Harry met his eyes, and he went on.

"You've been faced with impossible odds, Harry. And you've overcome them; and your ability and determination to overcome them has changed you. No, you're not the boy they would have raised. But they could _never_ be disappointed."

"You can't know that," Harry whispered.

"You know, I think I can. Because it's only been a few months, Harry, but even now...I can't even imagine being disappointed in you."

Harry opened his mouth, but then closed it again. He wanted to argue; he wanted to come clean, to confess all his sins to prove to Sirius that he was a terrible person, and that he should be disappointed in him. But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

It wasn't 'part of the plan', he mused bitterly. And he knew, deep down...that he couldn't handle it. He wasn't that strong. He wasn't sure if he could ever be that strong - and for the first time in his life, that thought truly hurt.

Sirius reached out and grasped his shoulder, shaking him slightly. "You look like you need some more scotch."

Harry smothered his anxiety and quirked an eyebrow as Sirius snatched his glass and refilled it with an obscene amount of what was likely very expensive single malt whisky.

"There is one surefire cure to guilt, self-loathing, and everything in between," Sirius announced, topping off his own glass.

"And what's that?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Alcohol. Lots, and lots of alcohol."

Harry rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. And as he took another sip of scotch, his eyes wandered to the grandfather clock in the corner, which had just struck midnight.

"Happy Christmas, Sirius."

"Happy Christmas, Harry."

* * *

Another bottle of whisky later, and Harry drifted off into slumber, empty glass still in hand...while a certain shrunken snake-turned-horcrux raged and cursed inside a magically sealed red backpack.

* * *

 **Explanation of the first two scenes:** To clarify for some people who might have gotten a little lost in the obscurity: the above scene isn't saying that Harry isn't one person in the colloquial sense (or at least, not any less than any other person), and this isn't actually fundamentally a representation of insanity. These aren't people inside of Harry's head; they're representations of him that manifest as thought processes and actions (think of it like this story; each chapter, the chapter you actually read, is not the story. It is one part of a representation of this story. It is a single fluid process through which my story is expressed and thereby revealed. My story would still exist if it wasn't posted on this website, and despite the fact that it is expressed through a series of, shall we say, processes, it is in fact a single story). I'm just dramatizing this by appealing to a philosophy of mind that suggests that conscious emerges from the complex processes that are required for 'thinking'; a bastardization and a bit cheap, yes, but I thought it was fun.

 **A bit of reassurance:** A few people have expressed concern for me with regards to the mugging I mentioned in a deleted AN, and since I have gotten the impression that people actually care, I wanted to reassure you that I'm not engaging in super risky behaviour or something. I always take as few valuables with me as possible when I go out while travelling (I travel with my old, cheap phone, bring small portions of money, and not my passport) so I have no qualms with doing what a mugger says if necessary, and when it comes to fight or flight, I think my instinct would be flight normally; but the thing is, I wasn't alone, and bolting wasn't an option. My girlfriend was with me, and the guy went after her first and caught her off guard; I ended up with a gun pointed at my head because I immediately told the guy that she didn't have any money, and that I had all the money. So there wasn't any reckless attempt at being badass and trying to beat the shit out of the guy; it was just two people walking home from a bus stop at 7:30 pm (it gets dark really quickly in Costa Rica), being unfortunate enough to run into some asshole with a gun that was probably fake, and trying to diffuse the situation as best as they could. I'm just kind of concerned about my lack of fear during and after the incident, not how I actually acted during it.

Anyway, that's it! I hope you guys enjoyed, despite my messed up posting method - it won't happen again! Anyway, for those of you who haven't reviewed yet, please do leave me a note and let me know how you feel about the conclusion of 1994!


	13. Christmas 1994

**Disclaimer:** I own so many new things! But not this.

 **AN:** So...this chapter is kind of a filler. Not actually a filler, because a couple of important things _do_ happen, but it's not very...well, very much. This chapter and the next are very transitional; I was originally going to combine them and just get it over with, but matching them up so the flow wasn't yucky was a bit of a task (the next chapter will still probably be a bit yucky, but...c'est la vie)...so, since I feel bad about not giving you exciting things, I'm going to publish the next chapter next Sunday.

...I'm off the hook now, right?

* * *

 **Chapter 13: Christmas 1994**

Harry blinked, a moment later wincing at the bright sunlight streaming through the slender cracks in the heavy drawing room curtains; it was not as jarring as it could have been (such as if, perhaps, Sirius ever opened the curtains at all), however, and his eyes adjusted quickly. As soon as they did, the first thing he noticed was the clutter on the coffee table; two glasses, a couple of small bottles and a couple of larger ones, along with a slightly disturbing number of candy wrappers.

Ah, right, Sirius had insisted on giving him his 'Christmas Christmas present' last night (even though they had _mutually_ _agreed_ that there would be no presents) - because it was _technically_ Christmas, a drunken Sirius had explained - which happened to be a small bag with a feather light and undetectable extension charm on it...filled entirely with candy. Sirius had admitted that at that point, he wasn't even sure how much candy was actually in the bag, since he had been collecting for several months now. Harry wasn't sure whether to be touched or concerned.

Speaking of Sirius, he had somehow landed on the floor, and was now moaning as his body twitched to life.

"Wha's goin' on?"

"A lot of things, I assume," Harry said, "It's Christmas morning, after all."

Sirius blinked a few times, and then squinted up at Harry. "It's...morning?"

Harry glanced at the very obvious sunlight casting a long, luminous line across the room. "Yes, that's where the light is coming from...from the sun...which has risen...because it's morning."

Sirius scowled at him. "Smart arse."

Harry rolled his eyes, glancing at his watch. "More specifically, it's eleven, which means Remus should be arr -"

It was right at that moment when Dobby popped into the room, bowing flamboyantly. "Dobby has come to wish one and all a very Happy Christmas, and to announce that Masters' guests have arrived!"

Harry looked over at Sirius. "See?"

Meanwhile, Sirius's eyes had flown open wide, and he scrambled to his feet - only to stumble back onto the sofa a moment later, head clutched in his hands.

"Bloody hell..."

"Hangover?" Harry asked amusedly.

Sirius looked up at him, glaring. "Why don't _you_ have one?"

Harry smirked. "Well, besides the fact that I drank about half the amount of alcohol you did, I had Dobby fetch me a couple of hydrating potions -" as well as, well, whatever Dobby had interpreted as fulfilling the vague order he'd drunkenly given of _something to make the morning more...magical_ "- before I fell asleep last night. You see, one of us is actually responsible enough to imbibe alcohol without suffering unnecessary consequences."

"Fuck you," Sirius bit out.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Murder is one thing, Sirius, but don't you think paedophilia is a bit much?"

Sirius glared at him viciously. "You think you're a funny little bastard, don't you?"

"I think I'm hilarious. People just haven't realized it yet."

"Yeah? Well I hope you can crack jokes at thin air, because if you don't get downstairs right now and distract Remus, you're grounded to your room for the rest of the holiday."

Harry smiled pleasantly. "Of _course_ , godfather mine. When have I ever let you down?"

"I seem to recall being instantly abandoned at a ball in Germany."

Harry shrugged. "That was mutually beneficial."

"You can't have known that beforehand."

"I know everything, including the future," Harry said informatively, "Why do you think I'm top of my class? Certainly not because I work hard and barely sleep."

"Shut up and leave."

Harry chuckled and walked off.

Straightening his shirt and jogging down the stairs, he heard voices coming from the entrance way - most notably Dobby's, which meant that the elf was likely regaling Remus with a tale of his mischievous adventures in Little Whinging; that was his favourite manner of entertaining the few guests they'd had, after all.

When he descended the final flight of stairs, he did indeed see Remus standing there, looking far more well fed and neatly dressed than he had been at their last meeting. Beside him was a petite Asian woman with hair even shorter than Harry's, who he assumed was Remus's girlfriend.

"Happy Christmas!" he announced.

They both looked up to see him (looking a little bit relieved), and a grin broke across Remus's face, as he traversed the room quickly to capture Harry in a warm embrace.

"Harry," he said fondly, "How are you? You've grown! At least a few inches."

Harry grinned a little. "I'm well - I assume you are as well, as you seem to have grown a few inches sideways."

The woman standing behind him burst out laughing, but Remus only raised an eyebrow. "Clearly Sirius is rubbing off on you."

"Maybe a little."

Remus rolled his eyes, before gesturing to the woman. "Harry, this is Reiko Yukimura, my girlfriend; Reiko, this is Harry Potter, my favourite student."

Harry's eyebrows rose at the introduction. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Reiko."

She grinned. "And it's a pleasure to meet the infamous Harry Potter -"

Harry could not help but grimace slightly.

"- the boy who mastered the _patronus_ charm at age thirteen."

Harry blinked, before smiling bashfully. "Remus told you about that?"

Reiko laughed. "He's always bragging about you to everyone."

"Come now, Reiko," Remus muttered.

" _Everyone_ ," Reiko repeated.

Remus sighed. "Anyhow, where's Sirius. Don't tell me he's cooking," he said, dread filling his voice.

Harry's eyes widened. "Sirius, cook?" He shivered slightly. "I would have vacated the premises, if that were the case."

"A prudent reaction."

"No, he's probably trying to get over his hangover. Dobby's quite busy with Christmas brunch I imagine, and Kreacher will find a way around any request he makes, so I think the road to recovery will be long and hard."

Remus's face went blank. "...his hangover."

Harry sighed dramatically. "Unlike myself, he lacked the foresight to take any hydrating potions before he passed out."

"You were _drinking_?"

"It was Sirius's idea," Harry said defensively.

Remus took a deep, calming breath. "He's upstairs."

"Unless he's decided the pain isn't worth it, and has jumped out his bedroom window in a fit of despair, he should be."

"Right. I'll be back."

And with that, Remus marched up the stairs.

"That was _cruel_."

Harry turned to Reiko, who was smiling at him, apparently very amused.

He smiled innocently. "I'm only trying to cultivate openness and honesty amidst the only two parental figures in my life."

"Uh huh, sure," Reiko said with good-natured skepticism.

Harry grinned a little, before pausing. It at that point occurred to him that this interaction could get very awkward very quickly, unless he initiated small talk, which was likely his responsibility, since he was, in fact, the host here. "So...is this your first time in England?"

"Oh, no, I've been here a couple of times for work - but not for very long."

"Oh...well, what do you for work?"

Reiko smiled slightly. "My official title is Head Researcher, of Research Division 17. But people usually just call me 'boss'. I answer to 'supreme leader' as well." She winked.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "And is the general public allowed to know what Research Division 17 does?"

Reiko chuckled. "It's not classified or anything - our work is _technically_ public - but we don't _publicize_ it because there are probably quite a few people who would...question that their tax dollars should be spent on our projects, and, well, we do collaborate with the no-maj government to an extent, and there are still people who are really against that, for one reason or another. I mean, it's important stuff, of course, we just tend to go a bit...overboard. I've got a passionate team."

Harry's eyes glimmered with interest. "So what do you research?"

Reiko seemed to have picked up on his interest, and seemed somewhat more eager to talk. "Well, in the past it's been mostly related to keeping no-maj technology from interfering with portals into magical spaces."

Harry frowned. "Magical spaces?"

"Like the Ministry of Magic or Ilvermorny...or Hogwarts for you, I guess."

Harry nodded in understanding. "So how's that going?"

Reiko shrugged. "No idea, at this point, we shoved it onto another team for another project."

Harry blinked. "Oh? Something even more interesting?"

"More challenging," Reiko clarified, "It's a joint research initiative with the States – our Ministries don't exactly...get along, but my division is a little like your Department of Mysteries, and we don't really get involved in...other things. The Americans' research divisions feel the same way."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "If it's sponsored by MACUSA it must be a pretty big deal." He paused. "No offense."

Reiko laughed. "None taken. It's no secret that Canada's magical community is minuscule - that's why we have to send kids to Ilvermorny, even though a lot of families disagree with parts of their curriculum...but that's remedied by a good home education in most places...the Ministry funds extracurricular education quite generously."

"What kind of programs do they fund?" Harry inquired, quite interested in the idea of the Ministry of Magic funding home education.

"Well, it's mostly supplementary curriculum that they provide, as well as some community education centres. As for the material itself...there's a lot about magical creatures, because that's a subject that is largely neglected in the States; there's also a lot about aboriginal magic. I'm muggleborn, so my parents weren't able to teach me, but they were great about driving me into the city and paying for a portkey liscense so I could go to one of the education centres in Toronto. They've got one in Montreal too, but everything is taught in French...but now they have another English one in Vancouver, and I hear that they've started a few study groups on Chinese, Korean, and Japanese folk magic, which is awesome... but about a decade too later for me." She smiled wryly.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "That's really neat - I wish they had something like that here. I'm just stuck doing random research and catching up on muggle schooling in the summertime."

"Well, there's value in that as well," Reiko pointed out. "There's a growing need for witches and wizards with a muggle education. That's how I got my position - by having both a degree from a muggle university and a mastery in Magical Theory."

Harry frowned. "What did you study?"

"Sociology and computer science."

"Wow, that's an...interesting combination."

Reiko laughed. "Yeah, my parents were pretty skeptical. But I proved them wrong quite spectacularly; I'd say that -"

It was just then that Remus came trudging down the stairs, leading a disgruntled Sirius behind him.

"That was a long lecture," Reiko remarked.

"Yes, well, he deserved it," Remus said lightly.

Sirius muttered something unsavoury under his breath, and was promptly elbowed in the ribs by Remus.

"Moony!" he whined.

"Shut up Sirius, you've said enough this morning."

Harry snickered a little, and Sirius glared at him, very clearly mouthing, "This isn't over."

"Well," Harry drawled, "I should think brunch is about -"

It was then that he found himself unable to ignore a subtle but very distinct noise that had been flitting about the edge of perceived sound, going louder and louder.

 _:- if you don't let me out I shall tell my master of your defiance and he shall smite you from the earth and – I know you can hear me speaker boy – you will perish, wailing and screaming -:_

"Harry?"

Harry's eyes flickered between Remus and the little backpack sitting in the corner, which was now squirming as a certain snake-turned-horcrux ranted inside.

"Why is your backpack moving?" Reiko asked, puzzled.

"Oh, I have a snake in it," Harry said offhandedly.

Reiko laughed, but Remus seemed to take it seriously, and frowned. "Sirius got you another snake?"

Reiko gaped.

"Oh, no, I just found it yesterday."

He glanced over at Sirius, who had paled, and was staring at him incredulously.

"In fact, I should go feed her. Sirius, can you help me?"

"...sure."

Harry smiled brilliantly, before gesturing to the hallway on his left. "The dining room is through there. Please make yourselves comfortable. We'll be back in a few minutes."

And with that, he walked over to his red backpack, picked it up, and made his way down to the cellar, with Sirius following behind.

Once they were safely out of earshot, Sirius wasted no time in chastising him. "What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?"

"I couldn't just leave her there; all her friends were dead," Harry very reasonably explained.

"Her 'friends' were Peter and Voldemort," Sirius spat.

"And she deserves better."

"And they're dead because we killed them."

"Exactly."

Sirius stared at him disbelievingly. "You actually want to adopt the massive, venomous, practically indestructible snake that nearly killed us last night."

"I should think that would be clear at this point."

"You – you -"

"Now, I'm going to open this backpack, and I'd very much appreciate it if you could stun her as soon as I do."

"Just...whatever, alright, I give up; I'll stun the bloody snake."

Harry grinned. "Brilliant. Now on my count; one – two – three!"

 _"Stupefy!"_

Harry glanced into the backpack. "Well, that went...quite smoothly. How unusual. Anyway, I'll keep her in the cellar until..."

"Until you're sure she won't kill us?"

"Basically. Don't worry, though – I'm certain I can get through to her."

Sirius stared at him for a long moment. "Yeah, so am I."

And with that, he trudged up the stairs, leaving Harry to wonder what exactly he'd meant by that.

But the curiosity only lasted a moment.

"Kreacher!"

The elf popped into the space in front of him. "Yes, Master Harry?"

Harry smiled. "Happy Christmas, Kreacher."

Kreacher looked at him adoringly. "And a Happy Christmas to Master Harry as well."

"Thanks! Now, if you wouldn't you mind locating Khor and Naya for me? I've got a job for them to do..."

* * *

"- well, the project is multi-faceted, to say the least; several divisions are involved. I guess the best way to explain it is to just give you the pitch." She cleared her throat and Remus rolled his eyes.

"She practiced this about thirty times on me."

Reiko paused, and glared at Remus. "Shut up and listen to me talk."

"Sorry, dear."

"As you should be. Anyway, I'll give you two words - technology analysis. It's an over-generalized umbrella term, but I introduce it to highlight just how relevant this research project is; as research fields become more complex, more thoughtful analysis of results is required, and technology...is increasingly crucial. Perhaps a slight narrowing of the idea could be found in, 'a comparative analysis of magical and no-maj technology'.

"Technology in the no-maj world is developing rapidly at this point in time, and this trend shows no signs of stopping. Which will inevitably prove to be devastating to the wizarding world if we continue to be complacent about this fact. While relations between wizards and no-majes are hardly antagonistic at this point in time, the fact that they are nearly non-existent, and have been for centuries, has created a unacceptable blanket of uncertainty that we can, at least to some extent, pierce with science. A knowledge of no-maj science and how it compares to our own technical fields could provide invaluable insight into what we stand to gain and lose from their technological advances. For the latter, take into consideration the threat of nuclear annihilation - an event in which nuclear war - a conflict that manifests in the use of nuclear weapons, like those the United States dropped on two cities in Japan in 1945 - breaks out across our planet, potentially causing the the violent deaths of billions of people and the destruction of the environment -"

"Well this is depressing," Sirius said loudly.

Harry shot an annoyed glance at him, and Remus glared slightly.

Reiko chuckled awkwardly. "I suppose it is. It's Christmas, after all. Perhaps this can wait." She looked over at Harry. "So...how's your first Christmas and Christmas Eve with your godfather been?" She smirked. "Besides intoxicated."

Remus huffed.

Harry grinned. "Oh, it's not just my first Christmas with Sirius – it's my first Christmas...my first real Christmas, that is. I was never allowed to celebrate Christmas with the...muggles. I mean, I washed the dishes and sometimes there was mashed potatoes and brussel sprouts left for me to eat, and when I was five I got a five pound note, and I once got a sock, but it was only one, so it was kind of useless. But I don't think that really counts."

Reiko's smile faltered.

"Well, they sound _much_ worse than my Aunt Meredith," Remus commented, "She gave me fruit cake every year – at least I could eat that."

Harry shrugged. "I dunno Remus, fruit cake is pretty awful."

"Well, she wasn't a bad baker..."

"But she wasn't a good one either," Sirius put in.

"Shut up, Sirius, you're not allowed to talk yet."

Sirius scowled and stabbed his waffle.

"I'm assuming what Sirius got you was highly superior to anything you received in the past?" Reiko cut in, apparently having recovered.

"Well," Harry cast an unimpressed glance at Sirius, "Sirius has acquired massive amounts of candy for me over the last four months, directly violating agreement we made."

Reiko's eyebrows rose. "Agreement?"

Sirius was shaking his head rapidly now.

"We agreed on no presents," Harry explained.

"No presents?" Remus cut in, casting a sideways glance at Sirius.

"It seemed really unnecessary," Harry continued. "Sirius just bought a whole bunch of presents for my birthday, and to be honest neither of us really like Christmas all that much…"

"Well," Remus said evenly, "I disagree. I think that Sirius most certainly should get you a Christmas present, and something you'll quite enjoy. In fact, name anything right now, Harry, and Sirius and I will go out and get it as soon as we're done eating."

Reiko looked like she was stifling incredulous chuckles.

Harry opened his mouth, almost expecting something to just come out of its own accord, as things often did these days – something insignificant and lacking in meaning or...him. But then he froze, remembering how far he'd come in the last few weeks, with Theo, with Pettigrew...and he decided, on a whim, to be honest, and say what first came to mind.

"Godric's Hollow."

Everyone at the table went silent, at that.

"I'd like someone to apparate me to Godric's Hollow, and leave me there, for...two hours, or something."

He didn't know why he said that. He didn't know why it even occurred to him, or where it came from. It was just...something he felt was necessary.

"Oh," Sirius said suddenly, his voice hoarse and barely there, "Of course...why didn't you...I mean, of course. When do you want to go?"

"After we finish eating?" Harry asked evenly.

"Of course."

* * *

And that was how he found himself standing before a little gate, covered in snow but still rising stalwart between any intruders and what lay looming behind, frail as it seemed.

The hand on Harry's shoulder vanished, but he couldn't bring himself to react; his eyes were fixed on the gate. Was it exactly as he had left it? Had he been the last one to pass through and disturb what lay beyond?

"You going to be alright, kiddo?"

Harry nodded vaguely. "Ye -" He cleared his throat, which was suddenly hoarse. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

"If you're sure...two hours, then?"

Harry nodded again.

And with a crack, Sirius disappeared.

 _And what exactly do you plan to do for two hours?_ Tom queried, his faint voice conveying annoyance.

Harry opened his mouth to try to explain himself – but then he realized he didn't have to.

The last time he and Tom had visited Godric's Hollow, he had longed to linger, to absorb, to feel this place that was so foreign and yet familiar. But he'd barely had any time at all; he'd had a job to do, and Tom had made it clear that they couldn't afford to linger; he'd indulged him when it came to visiting his parents' grave, but...

"I don't have a plan, and I don't need one," Harry said softly, but firmly. "And..." He hesitated, fearing the consequences. "...and I'd like to be alone. Please."

Tom was silent for a very long moment, and Harry felt anxiety building up in his chest, until he heard Tom's voice respond only barely. _Very well._

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, before reaching for the latch on the gate and lifting it, disturbing the light layer of snow that had rested upon it.

His carefully measured steps made light crunching sounds as they marked the white ground, and the sound amplified the sense of guilt pulsing through his body as he neared the house, disturbing more of the property as he went along. The wintry framing of the place seemed to hold it captive in a distant past so much more starkly than he remembered, and he felt very...unwanted. He didn't remember feeling this uncomfortable, last time; he didn't remember feeling with such certainty that he was trespassing.

But no, he told himself, this was his home. He had every right to be there.

The inside of the cottage was deathly cold, and everything seemed greyer than he remembered it; his heart sunk when he realized that he could no longer picture the happy family he had imagined five years ago; the interior of the cottage was just as dead as its former inhabitants, who were painfully absent. The stillness was suffocating, and the silence was -

But it wasn't silent.

A shiver ran down Harry's spine when his ears registered a sound that should not have been there – the sound of an infant wailing and whimpering.

He opened his mouth to ask Tom if he'd heard it too, but something deep inside him told him that this was no different than his solemn walk through the house; Tom didn't belong – he shouldn't be allowed to be there, to witness what belonged to him, and him only.

His second instinct was to leave, but that lasted for only a moment, before his body began to move, as though of it's own accord, toward the stairwell.

His footsteps thudded in his ears as though they were the footsteps of someone much larger than himself, and the stairs seemed to creak with a ferocity that wasn't consistent with his weight; in the meantime, though, the sensation of his heart hammering in his chest and a cold sweat dripping down his brow began to slowly vanish, and he was left with only the sound of footsteps and the cries of a baby.

The door to the nursery was only half opened, but as he neared it it swung open wide, as though welcoming him over the threshold – and as he rounded the corner into the room, he was met by something...he had never wanted to see.

A red haired woman was splayed across the carpeted ground, limbs limp and resting awkwardly, her fiery locks all askew, and her face – it was deathly white, and radiated cold; even so, a tear still rested in the crook between her eye and her nose.

Nausea rolled around in his stomach, and he was gripped by a sudden and unnatural fear. Of the presence of something far more... _there_ , so much more real than himself.

But most terrifying of all were her eyes; a bright green that drew him in, closer and closer, sucking him into not some tender emotion, but rather a haunting nothingness that threatened to swallow him whole. It was death.

Finally, he managed to tear his eyes away from the woman's and toward the source of the noise; a little child with jet-black hair and bright green eyes that matched the woman's, burning with such intensity that they begged the question of whether they had in fact robbed the woman's of theirs.

And on the child's forehead was a bleeding, lightning bolt-shaped scar.

Suddenly – for he had ceased breathing at some point – he sucked up a sharp intake of air, and this had an effect that he had not anticipated; it drew the infant's attention.

The child stopped crying, and turned his head, eyes widening when he took in the sight of a stranger standing in the doorway of his nursery; the second, Harry supposed, that had crossed through that night.

"Can you see me?" Harry breathed.

The child blinked, and then he did. And then nothing remained.

His lips parted, and he released the remainder of the breath he had been holding, watching a faint cloud of white escaping into the air.

He took another deep breath, and closed his eyes; and in that moment he realized that he was strangely...calm.

"It wasn't my fault," he announced to thin air, and he wondered if his words were as hollow as they sounded in his ears. "This isn't my fault." He swallowed. "It had to be like this. It always had to be like this."

The words just slipped out, so natural as though they had been recited many times before; but at the same time, a part of him knew just how very wrong they were...they seemed to just echo hollowly - the walls wouldn't quite absorb them.

He breathed again, and finally mustered the strength to turn around and make the long trudge down the stairwell, determined to try to find some of the happy memories that must have haunted that house as well.

* * *

He was sitting on a cold couch, staring at a wall, frowning with displeasure; there was something very strange about it, but he wasn't sure what it was. It had caught his eye as he wandered aimlessly around the house, striking him as important, despite it's utterly bland appearance. So he'd decided to contemplate it for a while, and see if anything came to him.

It wasn't working.

Standing up, he slowly walked over to it to inspect it for a second time; but just as he placed his hands on it, a memory flooded his mind – of a red-haired woman in a white dress covered in sunflowers, staring at the very same wall, before glancing down at the child in her arms, who appeared to be just older than a year, and smiling fondly.

"Now remember, Harry this is our little secret. Not a word to daddy or Padfoot."

"No wor's!"

"That's right, Harry! You're mummy's secret assistant, aren't you?"

"Se'ret as'tan'!"

The woman giggled, before she turned back to the wall, lifting her fist to knock -

 _knock-knock – knock, Knock-KNOCK_

Bemused, Harry did the exact same thing – and the outline of a nondescript, white door appeared on the wall. Finding himself startlingly un-startled, he opened it, and found a stairwell leading into some sort of decidedly un-cellar-like cellar.

As soon as he reached the bottom of the flight of stairs, he felt a pulling sensation, as though something inside him was being sucked out of his skin – like when he used _anathema purgo_ , but not nearly as painful - and he realized that his magic was being drawn out and tested for….something.

A moment later, the sensation fled, and another door formed on the wall in front of him, which he opened with ease.

He heard voices on the other side, and when he opened the door fully, he saw the red haired woman, this time wearing a dark red jumper and jeans, frantically sorting through papers while the child sat on the floor, wonder on his face while he levitated little paper animals in the air in front of him.

A few moments later, the woman finished sorting through a very large stack of paper, and placed it neatly in a drawer in the cabinet beside the now spotless desk, latching it shut, and whispering, _"Icarus"_.

It was then that she turned around and knelt on the ground, plucking the little paper animals out of the air.

The child turned to her, startled.

"Now Harry, this is your last day as my assistant."

The child blinked, tilting his head to the side.

"Because this is my last day, too. We're not coming back here."

The child appeared to understand at least some of this, and seemed quite saddened by the statement.

"I know how hard we've been working, sweetheart, but….we've worked a bit too hard, you see. We've learned too much. And if the wrong people ever learn what we have...some very bad things could happen."

The woman reached out to touch the child's face, and he could see tears forming in her eyes.

"We can't hide forever," she whispered, "He'll come for us. For you. And when he does...everything's going to be ok, I promise. It will be over, and you'll be free, sweetheart. But if...if I'm wrong, we can't let him find this place. Ever. So we're both going to forget. Not forever...not forever for you, anyway."

She held out two small vials. "We're going to drink these, and then we're going to go to sleep, and then everything's going to be ok."

Harry blinked, and he was alone again, with a single sound echoing throughout the room; a clear, ringing voice, equal measures frightened and tranquil.

"Everything's going to be ok."

Shakily, Harry shuffled across the room, toward the cabinet, and whispered, _"Icarus",_ gingerly opening it and finding, sure enough, multiple stacks of paper inside; some appeared to be handwritten notes; others appeared to be excerpts copied over from books; still others were well worn issues of academic journals.

Seized by a sudden urge to discover what lay between those pages, he began to whisper, _"Reducio...reducio...reducio...",_ before placing the stacks in a pocket of his red backpack. He looked around the small room, wondering that there was more to discover, but not feeling the courage to tear it apart searching – so he left, knowing that he would be back.

* * *

He stood in front of a white gravestone, shivering in the cold.

He had thought he'd have more to say this time. He thought he'd have questions. That he'd have stories, explanations, and confessions. He thought he'd feel a greater connection, a deeper understanding. He thought there would be more...

Just more.

But he didn't know what to say. And he knew that saying anything at all would be a mistake he would never recover from.

So he left, and waited for Sirius in front of the cottage, eyes not fixed on anything as he listened to nothing at all.

* * *

Slowly and carefully, Harry opened the door to the cellar, prepared to be attacked. Thankfully, no such thing happened; instead, upon turning the light on, he was met by three snakes curled up in a corner, stirring from slumber.

: _I see I've interrupted nap time.:_

 _:Yes, you have,:_ Khor bit out, _:So sod off.:_

Harry rolled his eyes. _:No, you sod off, Khor. I'm in no mood to deal with your whining right now.:_

The snake glowered at him, before slithering past him, muttering nasty remarks as he went.

Harry looked at Naya, who was staring at him in anticipation. _:May I have a moment alone with Nagini, Naya?.:_

 _:You'll talk to me later, right?:_

Harry smiled. _:Of course I will.:_

Satisfied, the small snake also left, leaving Harry standing several metres away from Nagini, who was staring at him warily.

 _:I think we got off to a bad start, Nagini. It's not your fault, of course. You didn't ask for any of this, did you?:_

 _:What are you?:_ she hissed suspiciously, _:How did you get inside my mind? No one can do that but -:_

 _:But your master? Yes, I know. Tell me, Nagini, do you know what_ you _are?:_

 _:Master says I'm very precious to him. He says that I watch over something very important.:_

Harry smiled slightly. _:Well, your master hasn't been entirely honest with you, Nagini.:_

 _:Master wouldn't lie to me!:_

 _:Perhaps not. But does he tell you everything?:_

Nagini did not appear to know how to answer that.

Harry took a step forward, and Nagini recoiled, but only slightly. _:He hasn't been telling you everything, Nagini, but you should know – you deserve to know. What you are, what's inside you. You're a soul-container. Your master removed a piece of himself and placed it inside of you. You see, he's not your master, and you're not his pet – you're just as much him as he is. You don't deserve to be treated like a pet.:_

Nagini stared at him warily. _:How could you possibly know this?:_

Harry's smile grew. _:Because I'm just like you, Nagini. I have a piece of Voldemort inside me. But like him, I'm a wizard. I have magic, and I have his memories, so I know exactly what he did; I'm just like him...but at the same time, not quite. I'm not quite like him, am I?:_

Nagini shifted, uncomfortably. _:Khor and Naya say you treat them well. They say you let them do as they please. They say you are their friend, and they are yours.:_

Harry nodded. _:That's right. We're friends. I respect them and they respect me. We sometimes say unkind things to each other but we can do that without hurting each other because we know in our hearts that we care about each other, that we trust one another. And I trust you even more, Nagini.:_

The snake lifted her head slightly.

 _:Because you're just like me. We've got pieces of Voldemort inside us, but we're not his pets – we don't belong to him. We're people, just like he is. And he has no right to keep secrets from us. That's why I don't follow him...and you don't have to either.:_

Nagini was frozen in place, and he started to walk gradually toward her.

 _:You can leave, of course...but you can also stay here, if you like, with me and Khor and Naya. This can be your home. You won't have to follow orders or live in cold, dark places. You can be somewhere warm, with food, and with friends. And we can protect you.:_ He slowly went down on his knees, and reached out with his hand. _:So what do you say, Nagini? Would you like to be my friend?:_

She met his hand, tongue flicking at his wrist, and he knew he had made a new friend...and procured the final piece of Tom's soul.

He only hoped that no more surprise horcruxes would pop up.

* * *

As Harry trudged up the staircase from the cellar, he started as he collided with another human being; Reiko.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "Sorry! I didn't think anyone would still be up...I wasn't at all watching where I was going."

Harry smiled. "A completely reasonable assumption. Can't sleep?"

Reiko shrugged. "Sometimes my mind gets busy. Plus, the time difference is a bit disruptive. Tea usually helps. The kitchen is this way?"

Harry nodded. "Feel free to ask Dobby next time – he'll be more than happy to help."

"For sure."

Harry began to walk off, before he frowned, and turned back around.

"So...nuclear annihilation?"

Reiko chuckled. "It has the most shock value."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "How Slytherin of you."

Reiko smirked. "I'm not a politician, strictly speaking...but working in the Ministry kind of demands I act like one sometimes, especially as department head."

Harry nodded. "Fair enough. I'm...surprised, though. I thought you said you were muggleborn."

Reiko blinked. "I am."

"Then...I mean, you're hardly the first muggleborn to try to spread awareness of muggle technology in the magical world...but that's usually for...positive reasons. Encourage progress. Generate sympathy for muggles. But you're actively supporting your goals by using the fact that muggles are a threat to us as a platform."

"Because they are," Reiko said simply.

Harry's eyes widened.

"There are lots of people who share my opinion that are racist and xenophobic...but I don't believe that I am, and I don't believe that these opinions are fundamentally rooted in bigotry."

"Really?"

Reiko shrugged. "I love my no-maj parents, and I love the non-magical world. If no-maj culture hadn't been a part of my childhood and education...well, that would have been to my detriment. And I know for a fact that in every way that matters in and of itself, no-majes are exactly the same as us; human beings with the potential to do good and evil, with feelings and families and a right to live and be free."

Harry pursed his lips.

"But we're not identical – and this fact itself is crucial...this is the sociologist in me speaking. Human history – both magical and non-magical – explicitly documents over and over again that differences in beliefs, geographical locations, physical features, and lifestyles are cause for violence and war. No-majes are slowly becoming more tolerant, more accepting of diversity. But if we're talking about a race between scientific progress and social progress...I think it's clear that science is going to win. And it will certainly win in the race against social progress in the magical world. Because even if the non-magical world welcomed the wizarding world with open arms, we wouldn't know how to deal with it, and would almost certainly mess it up."

"I don't think that's fair. Race hasn't been an issue in the magical world for a long time and even though non-traditional relationships, for instance, aren't exactly looked highly upon, they're hardly grounds for civil violence. Social progress isn't stifled in the magical world."

"Except when it comes to relations with no-majes."

"But there's a reason for that," Harry pointed out, "You've just said, they're a threat -"

"That's no excuse to look down on them or hate them," Reiko said firmly, "That's prejudice, and it's inherently harmful."

"But -"

"There's no difference between prejudice in the magical and non-magical worlds. Do you think hatred among no-majes is groundless? Persecution of different groups looks absurd from the outside, but it doesn't from the inside. If someone hates another group of people, they have a reason for it; I'll agree that it's not always a good reason...but sometimes it isn't a completely absurd one either. Otherwise, only unintelligent or insane people would be bigots. And that's simply not the case. The fact that there have been many, many reasonable, educated, intelligent people who have ascribed to their culture's oppression or persecution of another group should be a huge warning flag to anyone who thinks that their mistreatment of or even disdain toward another group of people is justified. Because honestly...what makes you different than them?"

"...nothing, I guess."

Reiko smiled sadly. "It's a scary thought, isn't it?"

Harry stifled a shiver. "Yeah...scary."

* * *

A little choppy and short, but hopefully not too boring? Let me know what you think!


	14. The Calm

**Disclaimer:** What do I own? Well, as of last Monday, some mad omelette-making skillz!

 **AN1:** Hey, so, I know I said I'd update last week...but I didn't take into account the date. Suffice it to say that between moving and going to the jazz festival and...life, I had no time. Anyway, I wish I was coming to you with a super awesome chapter, but this is, as the title suggests, just calm before the inevitable storm (and, admittedly, a bit of a rush job...I might have written most of it after midnight last night), and the next chapter should be far more exciting.

 **AN2:** So, a couple of people have expressed skepticism over Harry yielding so quickly to Reiko in the last chapter, and I thought that this might actually be worth going over.

Someone used the name 'random woman' to describe Reiko, and the issue here is that that's a decidedly inaccurate title, for two main reasons. The first is that she's Remus's girlfriend, and it's reasonable for Harry to assume that anything he says to her may very well make it to Remus's ears, and then possibly to Sirius's or Dumbledore's - and those are the two people that have actual physical control over Harry's life; it's not unreasonable of him to not be too keen to engage in a conversation on a potentially volatile topic when he's very tired, and any mistakes he made might 'go on permanent record'. The second reason is that shes a very educated and intelligent person in a position of considerable influence, and making a bad impression wouldn't be smart move, especially right after meeting her. Trust me, this discussion between them isn't over - Harry just didn't want to push it then, partially because he was, simply, exhausted.

Besides Harry having quite a long day and already having a lot on his mind, you might have noticed a growing trend...of Harry realizing that though he does have some very strong beliefs of his own that he absolutely wants to stick with, these are very closely interwoven with Voldemort's, to the point where he's been noticing himself making statements and not even feeling like it's him talking, and this is starting to really concern him, as he explicitly exposited in chapter 12. It's really not surprising - he's a teenager now, and he wants to find himself and see himself as his own person. There's an element of natural teenage rebellion, manifesting in doubt and dishonesty, as well as a creeping suspicion that there's something more sinister going on, and there's something seriously wrong with him.

* * *

 **Chapter 14: The Calm**

"What's that?"

Harry removed his headphones, but kept the music playing as he glanced up at Theo and Draco, who had just entered his compartment, and were staring at the device in his hands, bewildered.

"It's called a 'walkman'. It's a muggle device."

"And what does it...do?" Theo asked, puzzled, while Draco stared on in revulsion.

"It plays music recorded on small disks."

Theo blinked. "Um, wow. But...I thought muggle technology doesn't work at Hogwarts - won't it stop working once we arrive?"

Harry shrugged. "Probably. That's actually the point. It's been both magically and physically altered, and should in theory survive an environment like Hogwarts longer, but it's just a prototype so it'll probably fail. I'm supposed to find out exactly when and how that happens."

"Oh how fascinating!" Hermione exclaimed animatedly as she slipped past Theo and Draco and plopped down into the seat beside Harry, bending down to examine the small device. "Did you make it?"

Harry peered down at the brand name at the top. "Well, actually, Panasonic did."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I mean, did you do the modifications yourself?"

Harry's eyebrows rose. "You think I can perform magic that complex without a wand? I'm flattered, Hermione, but -"

She scowled. "Alright, alright, fine. Where did you get it then?"

"The head of one of the joint departments of MACUSA and CMM's Departments of Mysteries."

Everyone's jaws dropped.

 _"What?"_

Harry's lips twitched. "Remus's girlfriend."

Shock morphed into confusion.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Are you two going to sit down?"

Slowly, Theo and Draco made their way into the compartment, closing the door behind them and sitting down across from Harry and Hermione.

"So," Theo said musingly, leaning back in his seat, "Obviously you had an interesting holiday."

"I'm confused," Draco put in.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well it's obvious, isn't it?"

Draco bristled.

"Professor Lupin is dating a Canadian Ministry of Magic employee who is in charge of a research division that specializes in muggle technology, and they both visited Harry and Mr. Black during the Christmas holiday," Hermione explained primly, before her face broke into a big smile. "Isn't that wonderful?"

"Exactly," Harry concurred.

Draco scowled at them both.

"Anyway," Harry said happily, ""How was the Yule Ball? Anything exciting happen?"

Hermione glared at Theo, who grinned.

"Oh, we had a splendid time," Theo said, "Daphne and I met up with the Weasley twins like you said, the day before, and we put together an excellent plan."

"They spiked the punch and planted fireworks in the food!" Hermione exclaimed furiously.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Fireworks in the food?" he asked, impressed.

Theo nodded eagerly. "You know, for Gryffindors, those two aren't so so bad. They've got amazing contacts – they showed us all the the things they got a hold of, and are waiting for their NEWT year to use. There's this amazing map they have that shows the locations of everyone in the school, and they've got fairy grenades, Harry, _fairy grenades_!"

Harry blinked. "I'm...not actually sure what those are."

"They're like dungbombs – but they release hallucinogens instead!"

Hermione looked horrified at the prospect.

Harry's eyes glittered. "Sounds like -" he glanced at Hermione, who was glaring at him "- a time. Yeah...sounds like...a time."

"Anyhow," Hermione said briskly, "Adina taught me how to dance, and I had a lovely time, despite Theo and Greengrass's efforts to ensure the contrary."

"It was ok," Draco mumbled with a shrug.

Hermione snickered.

"Watch it, Granger."

"Or _what_ , Malfoy?"

'So what did you do, Harry?" Theo asked loudly. "You weren't at the Malfoy's New Years party."

Harry smiled sheepishly. "Yeah...I just, you know, had a quiet holiday with Sirius and Remus."

"Quiet?" Theo, who'd spent more time with Sirius than the others, inquired suspiciously. "Are you sure?"

Harry's lips twitched. "More or less. Anyway, I do believe we have business to attend to."

The others nodded, and Draco pulled a large, leather bound book with tattered, yellow pages out of his bag. "The book you asked for. Given how much dust I had to clean off it, I doubt my father will notice it's missing."

Harry reached out and took the book, smiling slightly.

 _Magicks of the Blod_

Hermione shivered slightly.

"Scared, Granger?" Draco asked smugly.

She glared at him. "It's dangerous magic, Malfoy, of course I'm scared, and you're even more of an idiot than I thought you were, if you're not."

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Hermione went on.

"I still don't think this is a good idea. Are you sure about this, Harry?"

He nodded resolutely. "The reason we started the order was to ensure we had the means to protect ourselves and each other, and knowing this magic is a crucial safety net."

"In case of what?"

Harry shrugged.

Hermione scowled. "Fine. Then what exactly are we going to learn?"

Harry opened the ancient tome, scanning the table of contents before placing his finger on one of the middle entries. "The _fidelius_ charm."

And sacrificial blood wards, of course.

* * *

"So how was your holiday?"

Harry was standing atop the astronomy tower, turning the walkman Reiko had given him, which had briefly burst into flames about an hour ago, in his hands, while Theo a definitive few feet away, staring over the edge curiously. Theo had quietly requested a conversation after dinner, and though Harry really wanted to get a head start on _something_ (he hadn't exactly decided yet...perhaps he would write to Reiko before he forgot the details), he felt obliged to indulge the other boy, given...the events of three weeks ago.

"Bloody awful."

Harry frowned. "Why?"

"I spent it with my father," Theo said flatly.

Harry blinked. "Is that it? Not that that isn't….bloody awful or anything…"

Theo smiled slightly, but the smile quickly slipped off his face. "I missed you," he said quietly, eyes tracing one of the faint constellations twinkling overhead.

"I...missed you too," Harry admitted truthfully. "I had a great holiday – best I've ever had – but there were a few moments where I really wished you could have been there."

"Maybe next year," Theo murmured.

"Maybe."

They both lapsed into silence.

"So...you wanted to talk?"

"What did you actually do over the holiday?" Theo suddenly asked, seemingly ignoring the question.

Harry looked at him curiously, not really minding the evasion.

"You said you spent time with Sirius and Lupin, and I believe you...but something else happened. You wouldn't be so pleased...so satisfied, otherwise. And you seem...different."

Harry nodded; it was times like this when he did, in a way, understand why Tom had done what he did. Theo _was_ a threat; he could read his face and his words and his actions, and extract meaningful conclusions from them. Perhaps more than anyone. And he was often correct. "Sirius trained me. Duelling and wandless magic, introductory auror training, really -"

"Wicked."

"It was quite intense – a whole week, nearly ten hours a day."

Theo's eyebrows rose. "Any particular reason?"

Harry hesitated. "We killed Peter Pettigrew."

"You _what_?"

Harry glanced at him. "We tracked down Peter Pettigrew, and killed him."

 _"Why?"_

"Revenge," Harry said simply.

Theo stared at him for a long moment; and Harry knew he'd just given Theo another vital puzzle piece, realizing a moment later that he didn't know how he'd react. He wondered if he would disapprove of not handing Pettigrew over, or if he'd be unhappy that he did something so reckless. He wondered if he cared

But then Theo nodded slowly. "Well...good for you."

Harry smiled at him with raised eyebrows. "Good to know you approve."

Theo chuckled, but then looked at Harry seriously. "It brought you...peace. I can tell. Of course I approve."

Harry suddenly felt something twist deep inside his chest. "Peace…yeah, I suppose."

Theo nodded knowingly. "But something else happened, didn't it? Something that's put you on edge."

How did Theo notice so much when no one else did?

"Nothing really…" he began uneasily.

Theo just looked at him with palpable skepticism.

"I mean, it's just...well, a lot of things." He paused. "I've just had a lot on my mind...I mean I always have, but recently I've just felt like my head will explode if I don't do something about it, and I don't know when it became like that, but...I don't know…"

Theo frowned. "Well what do you have on your mind?" He hesitated. "Maybe I can help."

"I…" Realization dawned on him. "I think I'm scared."

Theo's frown deepened.

"I think I've realized that the world's somehow gotten bigger and that...I don't know my place in it anymore. All of these things are happening, and I feel like I'm starting to be stretched thin; people keep wanting more from Harry Potter, but I don't know if there's that much left. I don't know if there's enough there to...I don't know if Harry Potter can survive in a bigger world."

Theo was silent for a moment. "I'm honestly not sure I understand."

Harry sighed. "Neither am I." His eyes drifted down to the small device in his hands, drawn to the charred streaks running along it. "You wanted to talk."

Silence followed his declaration, and then Theo sighed. "Yeah I...I just wanted you to know...I don't expect anything."

Harry frowned, instantly understanding the context, but not understanding the statement at all.

"And I'd outright...deny everything, if I thought either of us would benefit from it, but I've thought a lot about it, and I know that...well you don't have anyone. And you...you won't."

"What makes you think that?" Harry asked, immensely relieved that he was still following the somewhat cryptic statements but still confused as to what Theo was talking about.

"You don't look at anyone. You don't notice anyone, it's like you've...it's like something's just...turned off. In your brain."

"I…"

"Everyone else noticed, you know."

Harry grimaced.

"Draco's outright told me to get over it, because you'd never notice, and Hermione even took me aside and tried to get me to come to her support group. And I knew they were right, and even now I know that you're just indulging me -"

"I'm not," Harry interjected. "I'm really not. I...just don't know what I can do. Because I don't...I don't know how to...you're right, you know. It confuses me and...makes me...uneasy. Hermione and Adina - it scares me, how close they became so quickly, and Draco and Pansy…"

Theo grimaced at the mention of what was really an infamous example of the most disfunctional non-relationship at Hogwarts, at this point.

"Whatever makes them...like that...I don't want anything to do with it. But that doesn't change the fact that...you're my favourite person."

"Your best friend," Theo said, unable to entirely keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"But more than that - because it's just you, and...I want to...make it a promise."

"What kind of promise?"

"I don't...know yet."

Theo hesitated, but then nodded slowly. "You're my favourite person too."

Harry smiled slightly.

They lapsed into silence once again, and Harry, this time, couldn't manage to distract himself; there was a strange tension, benign but palpable, in the air, and he felt with such immense certainty that _something_ had to be said. So he opened his mouth to conclude the conversation - but then something entirely different came out.

"It's always moving, everything around me, and it's...and it's really confusing. All of it. And I have to move if...if I don't want to...drown. If I don't want to be sucked in and dragged under. Stopping is...dying; indecision is...it's just the beginning of the end, and there are ways to avoid that; I know there are. There are rules, principles, goals, that push people, that push me. But it's like they're being pulled out from under me; it's like someone's pulling out a rug from under my feet, but painfully slowly, as though they don't want me to notice, which, if you think about it, is physically impossible, because they'd just be dragging me along with the rug, so the analogy doesn't work, but I guess in a way the absurdity of the impossibility makes it all the more fitting, because I don't even know how the rug got there in the first place, and unless I stare right at it, I forget what it looks like, and when I stare too long, I get caught up in all those patterns - you know, those rather eerie, frightening ones that seem to swim and twist as you watch them - and I forget what shapes and colours are and that they exist outside this stupid bloody rug, and -"

He froze, all of a sudden realizing that Theo was standing beside him, only a few inches away now, utterly silent. With trepidation, he risked a glance at the other boy, who, to his surprise, didn't seem unnerved or confused by his tirade at all.

"Sounds like you might need a new rug."

Harry stared at his best friend very closely for a moment, suddenly feeling like he'd never actually looked before; he'd never noticed how Theo's face was never quite blank, how even at his most cunning and shrewd he was genuine underneath; he'd never noticed how he seemed to disappear when he was silent, and how he was the sort of person who wouldn't quite be entirely out of place anywhere; he'd never noticed how different Theo looked from his father, how he must take after his mother, and how much peace of mind this probably gave him.

"Maybe you'll have to take me rug shopping sometime."

"I know you're not actually into blokes, Harry, but you're really fucking queer sometimes."

Harry snorted, and then smiled slightly, knowing that he'd just acquired a few puzzle pieces of his own, before joining Theo in examining the constellations overhead.

* * *

Harry stared at _Magicks of the Blod_ in confusion. " _Professor Dumbledore_ cast these?"

 _He was the one who described them as blood wards. Do you think him a liar?_

"Well...not a pathological liar, but….maybe? Maybe a little? Sometimes?"

 _It never ceases to provide me with relief that you are not as stupid as you look_ , Tom said flatly.

Harry snorted, before frowning. "What could it be then? If not blood wards, what could he have used? It had something to do with Aunt Petunia but if it isn't blood, then…"

 _Denial does not become you, Harry. You know the answer to that question._

"Soul magic."

 _An addendum to your mother's spell_ , Tom elaborated bluntly.

"But then…"

 _Yes?_ Tom insisted, almost cruelly.

"Then it's...then it's possible he knew all along. What mum planned to do. That she planned to sacrifice her life…"

 _That he let her die._

"But that still doesn't make sense," Harry objected, "Inheritance is biological. How could the spell have been tied to aunt Petunia if it was soul magic?"

 _There is no evidence that soul magic is cannot leverage inheritance and genetics. There is no evidence that there are no hereditary qualities of the soul_ , Tom pointed out, some degree of excitement evident in his voice.

"But there's no decisive evidence that there are are, though."

 _Not in published literature,_ Tom said pointedly.

Harry sighed. "That's…" He hesitated, before reaching into his bag and pulling out the first of his mother's notebooks. "I suppose I had better get to work, then."

 _Indeed._

He opened the notebook carefully, before groaning. "Of course it's encrypted."

 _Paranoid mudblood…_

Harry sighed.

* * *

Harry sat apprehensively in his seat in the Potions classroom as he packed up his bag; Professor Snape had ignored him for the whole class – he hadn't even marked his potion – just as he'd been doing since Harry 'got back' (from his brief expedition to catatonia, that is), and he knew exactly why. Tom had given him a rundown of his exchange with the 'traitor', leaving Harry extremely disheartened; he'd put a lot of work into maintaining the delicate state of his relationship with the Potions professor, and starting over...he couldn't deal with yet another complication in his life, not then, when things were just starting to clear up.

Kind of. Sort of. Superficially, at least.

Finally, the last person fled the classroom, and Harry slowly made his way to the front of the room. He knew the professor had noticed him, but stubbornly pretended he wasn't there nonetheless.

"Sir?" he said quietly.

He was ignored.

"Sir, I just...I wanted to – no, I needed to apologize."

He saw the man shift slightly, pausing in whatever first year's essay he was assigning a failing grade to, and so he knew he had been heard.

"I wasn't...myself, at the end of term. And that's certainly no excuse for my behaviour; the only reason I bring it up is that I want you to know that my words at that particular moment do not at all indicate my general attitude towards you. I respect you and your concern for me, even though I might not always like it. And...well, anyway, I'm sorry. My actions were inexcusable, and all I can do is ask for forgiveness."

He stood there awkwardly, waiting for a response – any kind of indication that his words had been acknowledged – until Professor Snape's head snapped upward.

"Detention, Potter."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Do I need to send you to Madame Pomfrey to get your ears checked as well?"

"Sir, I – what did I _do_?"

"You were just referencing it quite explicitly, I believe."

"But that was weeks ago..." Harry objected weakly.

"And I'm assigning you a detention today."

"Sir...you can't retroactively assign detentions..."

"I just did."

Harry gaped. "Sir, I've...I've never gotten a detention before."

Professor Snape smiled cruelly. "Well, there's a first time for everything."

Harry's shoulders slumped; he knew he had lost.

"You will report to my office every Thursday at seven until further notice...to scrub cauldrons."

He heard Tom chuckling. _This is what you get for apologizing._

Harry sighed. "Yes sir," he said dejectedly before beginning to walk away. But then he froze, and turned back around. "Sir, I have a question. About a potion."

The man raised an eyebrow.

"I...I know there are a lot of potions that can erase memories. But are there...really advanced potions that can not erase, but repress, very specific parts of someone's memories? Like, not just events - for example memories of a certain topic? Or of a specific place?"

His head began to throb.

Professor Snape's impassive expression had morphed into a vague frown. "There are...several that spring to mind."

Harry nodded slowly. "Are there any that are only semi permanent? That might allow the memories to resurface in, say, ten or fifteen years?"

"A few such potions exist," the man confirmed, with something that looked like trepidation beginning to glimmer in his eyes.

"Right, and what are they called?"

Professor Snape's face grew closed off. "That is very dark magic, Potter. It would be very irresponsible for a professor to impart such knowledge to a mere fourth year."

Harry tried to not look too troubled, or disappointed for that matter. "I...I understand. But...I'm just wondering...of these few potions...well, what kind of effects might they have if they were given to a small child?"

The man's eyes flashed and his entire body tensed. "That is a very specific question, Potter."

Harry also tensed. "I suppose it is...sorry I bothered you, professor," he said, before marching swiftly from the room.

 _That was very foolish_ , Tom said darkly.

"I couldn't help myself," Harry whispered.

 _Yes, well, next time think twice before risking everything for answers you do not truly desire_ , Tom snapped unhappily.

Harry let out a shaky breath.

* * *

"I did it!" Hermione exclaimed joyously as she burst into the Room of Requirement.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Did what?"

"I made my first transformation!"

Harry's eyes lit up. "Congratulations!"

Theo groaned. "Why am I always last?"

"Because Hermione and I are the best students in our year."

Theo scowled at him, but shrugged a moment later. "At least I'll transform before Draco."

Draco glowered. "Only because I've barely started yet!"

"Anyway," Harry interjected. "Progress report?"

The others nodded.

"Draco and I have mastered the last two curses on the list," Theo began, "And we skimmed the book you lent us, and made a list of what we want to learn next."

"And I managed to get a restricted section pass from Professor McGonagall," Hermione put in, "I found that text on the usage of wards in light magic...it looks extensive enough to use as a cross reference."

Harry nodded. "Good. And I -"

Suddenly, the door opened once again, and Tracey walked briskly in.

"Evening."

Harry frowned. "Good evening. You're early."

Tracey shrugged nonchalantly. "Not as early as you lot are...every meeting. What exactly do you get up to before the rest of us get here?"

"We go over the lesson plans," Harry replied easily.

Tracey looked between them suspiciously. "...right."

"But now that you're here, how about Draco helps you with the spells we went over last week."

"No!" Tracey said quickly. "I mean, I want to work with Hermione."

Draco frowned dejectedly.

"Why?"

"She's a better teacher."

Hermione looked quite satisfied with that assessment, and Draco scowled.

"Well then," Hermione said. "We'll work on the blasting curse first."

Tracey smiled, apparently relieved. "Sounds like a plan to me."

When the two girls had started casting spells on the other side of the room, Theo frowned at Draco. "What did you _do_?"

"I'm sure he didn't do anything," Harry put in, "He just needs to work on his teaching skills."

Theo rolled his eyes. "No, he definitely did something. She's been avoiding him since January."

"It's nothing," Draco interjected.

"Mhmm," Theo said.

Harry looked between them confusedly. "Alright, well, I suppose that if you did nothing and something at the same time, it was likely the fact that you did nothing that's the problem."

Realization seemed to dawn on Theo.

"Anyway, I'm leaving you in charge again, Theo."

Draco's eyebrows rose. "You've _still_ got detention?"

Harry sighed. "At least I've graduated from scrubbing cauldrons to brewing potions for Madame Pomfrey."

"Good luck, mate."

"I'll need it," Harry muttered, before walking off, less than pleased to endure another hour of Professor Snape's suspicious stares.

* * *

Harry huffed, tearing the page he'd been writing on out of his diary and crumpling it up out of sheer frustration. Sure he could have just erased everything, but he was beyond parchment clearing charms at this point. He'd spent the last ten minutes puzzling over a particularly odd block of encrypted text, which it turned out translated to _March 29, 1980,_ an utterly unhelpful indicator that only told him that this notebook entry had been written fifteen years and one day ago.

He glanced over at Theo, who had apparently fallen asleep; they were seated at a table he'd conjured in the Room of Hot Chocolate, and apparently the chairs were comfy enough to sleep in. But then again, Theo could fall asleep pretty much anywhere.

Slightly annoyed - which he knew wasn't remotely fair - he threw his crumpled paper at the other boy's head, startling him from his nap.

"Ow!" Theo glared at him accusingly.

" You fell asleep."

Theo grimaced sourly. "Because I'm bored. This is even worse than homework."

Harry rolled his eyes. " You're the one who said we should spend more time together."

"Yeah, doing something _fun_."

"It'll be fun after we decode everything."

"Yeah, seven years later," Theo grumbled.

"I estimate another ten hours, actually "

Theo groaned. "Who writes their study notes in code anyway?"

"Someone who doesn't want them easily read," Harry said in a voice that indicated that was obvious.

Theo rolled his eyes. "Who wrote these anyway? You said they were advanced Charms notes?"

"I already told you."

"No, you just said you 'inherited' them."

"Yes, exactly."

Theo just looked puzzled.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Well there's only one person I could have inherited them from, right?"

"Er, yes?"

Harry sighed. "Inherited implies that they belonged to a dead family member, and clearly the handwriting is a woman's. So a female relative, then. The notes cite journals published in the last 17 years, so my grandmother and all my other female magical relatives were dead by that time. So they must have belonged to my mother."

Theo scowled. "You expected me to get all that from 'inherited'?"

"Yes," Harry said blankly.

Theo rolled his eyes. "Typical. So why would your mum of all people need to encode her study notes?"

Harry turned to the pile of notes in front of him, and started to sort them back into order. "She was working on her mastery in Charms, and was doing secret research for professor Dumbledore. I imagine she learned a few things that shouldn't exactly be made public knowledge."

Theo's eyes were wide, suddenly far more interested. "Like what?"

Harry shrugged. "No idea."

Theo leaned back in his chair. "So...your mum was looking for something for Dumbledore during the war...so it must have been like a weapon or something…"

Harry shrugged again. "Or something. Weapons aren't really the headmaster's style. He's more subtle than that."

Theo raised an eyebrow. "Isn't he a Gryffindor?"

"Bravery can be subtle," Harry commented. "Besides, he once told me that age tends to bring out the Slytherin in all of us."

Theo snorted.

Harry smiled slightly. "It's probably true though, isn't it? It would be strange if you went through your life without coming out a little more Slytherin on the other side. For anyone who wants to actually be something, to make their life mean something...how are they supposed to do that without being at least a little ambitious and determined and clever?"

Theo nodded slowly. "That...makes sense, actually. So...exactly how Slytherin do you think the Headmaster is?"

Harry hesitated. "I'm hoping these notes might tell us that, actually."

Theo peered at him curiously. "But that's not why we're doing this, is it?"

Harry hesitated. "I…"

"Don't know," Theo concluded.

Harry smiled wryly. "Not really, no. But it's important."

"Well, I guess we had better get decoding then."

Harry grinned. "That's the spirit!"

But you're going to help me with my transformation later."

"Deal."

* * *

Harry stared down at the small rat he had conjured with trepidation.

It was late April, and Term 2 had flown by.

The second task of the Triwizard Tournament came and went months ago – something about the Black Lake and kidnapped students, he wasn't really paying attention – while the Order continued to meet and their new members quickly improved. As it turned out, it was much easier teaching fourth year students with a fair bit of magical theory under their belt, with the help of three assistants who were adept duellists and occlumens themselves, rather than being the sole, inexperienced teacher to a couple of first years, and everyone seemed to be doing well and enjoying themselves considerably; they spent most of their time on occlumency and duelling, but once his detentions had come to an end, he had discovered that the Thursday evening sessions had begun to occasionally devolve into amusing, frivolous competitions and games (like 'who can conjure the most frogs in 30 seconds' or 'charmed snowball fights' or 'artistic firework competitions'), and while they were mostly just for recreational purposes, Harry enjoyed himself once he was able to join in, and thought they were worthy team-building exercises...much to Tom's annoyance.

Meanwhile, Hermione and Adina's budding romance was somewhat disconcerting yet slightly fascinating to watch and Daphne was still trying to get him to go on a date with her, much to Theo's amusement. In retrospect, the other boy had always shown fairly visible distaste towards Daphne's affections for him, but was apparently less...anxious over the matter now, and had taken to giving the besotted girl (very bad) advice regarding...well, Harry didn't really know what the point of the bouquet of rainbow roses surrounded by humming bees and that 'belated-half-birthday-tiara' was, besides to annoy him...which, in hindsight, was likely Theo's intention. He thought it was rather cruel, actually, but had thus far not really felt any motivation to address the matter, despite Tom's constant complaints about "his followers' insolence".

Classes continued to be easy, so Harry poured his time into finally perfecting his second spell, trying to decipher his mother's notes, and reading the book Professor Dumbledore had lent him, which was….bizarre, to say the least. It read more like a philosophy or linguistics text than a magic tome, despite the fact that its main subject was magical theory; specifically, it dealt with the nature of incantations and their absence. It was fascinating, for sure, but Harry wasn't sure exactly how understanding the links between how the bastardized Latin of European magic incantatioons and context and intent were going to teach him how to organize his mind. It had been doing the opposite thus far.

In the meantime, Tom, who had mostly recovered from his strenuous outing in December, also decided to take advantage of the little, tiny, miniscule periods of free time he managed to acquire in April to teach him a plethora of new curses...including the other two unforgivables that he had yet to cast...which was what he was doing today.

He continued to stare at the rat nervously, feeling his stomach squirm.

 _Just imagine it's Wormtail_ , Tom said happily, _Think about how he went to Voldemort begging for clemency, offering up his arm to be branded, going behind the backs of his his dear friends – who had always protected and nurtured him – and ultimately giving their location to the Dark Lord so that he could murder them and their infant son...you._

Suddenly, an image of Pettigrew, sniveling on the floor and kissing the hem of Voldemort's robe, invaded his mind – probably at Tom's command.

The nervousness that had been bubbling in Harry's stomach turned to disgust and cold fury, and he didn't hesitate to point his wand at the rodent, which had frozen in fear, whispering, " _Crucio_."

A moment later, the rat was writhing on the floor, letting out small squeals.

Harry held the curse for a few seconds, before reality finally settled back in, and he abruptly ended it, staring down at the little rat – now twitching on the floor, letting out harsh pants – in horror, feeling vague pulses of phantom pain in his own body. He shivered.

"I did it," he whispered.

 _Excellent work, Harry_ , Tom said, sounding exceptionally pleased. _You've proven yourself quite adept at casting unforgivables – a very good sign indeed._

Harry smiled shakily, not entirely sure how to feel about this. The unforgivables were...a different kind of dark magic, that much had been made clear to him by both Tom and Moody. The ability to perform the unforgivable curses would mean he had cemented his status as a dark wizard...while at the same time, he was very much at a stand still when it came to learning light magic. There simply hadn't been enough hours in each day, and with no one around to goad him into practicing...

 _Now try the last one_ , Tom commanded gleefully.

Jolted back into the present, Harry felt something cold trickle down his spine, suddenly very unsure. He felt his hand begin to shake.

 _Just imagine -_

"It's Wormtail, I know," Harry murmured.

Tom didn't reprimand him for interrupting him.

Taking a very deep breath, Harry steadied his hand, before calling out, " _Avada Kedavra_!"

Nothing happened, and Harry didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

The rat continued to twitch on the floor.

 _Even I did not succeed on my first try_ , Tom said consolingly, before commanding, _Try again._

Harry sighed, before summoning all his determination again, and pronouncing very clearly, " _Avada Kedavra_!"

This time a small jolt of green light crackled through the air, but nothing happened.

Harry's shoulders slumped.

 _Again._

Harry glanced at his watch. _:It's nearly midnight, Tom. I need to sleep – there's an arithmancy practice exam tomorrow first thing.:_

Much to Harry's delight, his visions had ceased with Voldemort 1.0's temporary demise, and he was now sleeping an adequate five to seven hours every night, and his performance on exams had increased greatly as a result; he wasn't about to sacrifice his improvements with his Arithmancy OWL right around the corner.

Tom was silent for a moment. _Very well. But you will attempt to cast the curse at least once every day until you succeed._

Harry groaned. "Yes Tom."

* * *

It was the last Hogsmeade weekend of the year, and a pleasant June sun was shimmering in the sky; Harry, however, no longer bore witness to it, as he was currently seated in the Hogshead with Theo, drinking chilled butterbeers in a dark corner.

It was an obvious choice in venue. They'd made a few rules in the beginning; no walking around holding hands, no valentines, no pet names, and for god's sake, no cheesy dates at Madame Puddifoots. And, well, the Three Broomsticks was always far too crowded, and though he only had two years of Hogsmeade weekends under his belt, Harry was fed up, at this point; however, no one ever went to the Hogshead, which was dreary and a bit decrepit – and let's face it, Abeforth Dumbledore _was_ a little bit creepy.

Harry didn't mind, however, and Theo was fairly ambivalent, and seemed to approve of the privacy as well. Besides, with how busy Hogsmeade was that day, they both craved a little peace and quiet.

But suddenly, their silent sipping was interrupted by the door of the pub creaking open, followed by a clunking sound; Professor Moody had arrived.

Theo seemed to grow disinterested in the professor's presence quite quickly, but Harry watched warily as the man strode across the room to the bar and ordered a glass of firewhiskey – before his eyes turned very deliberately to Harry. Then he made a small gesture – a jerking of the chin, which was clearly directed at him.

The man was trying to get his attention...but why?

Frowning, Harry turned to Theo, who had just finished his butterbeer. "Why don't we check out Zonko's? Sirius will murder me if I don't play a prank before the end of Term."

Theo's eyes lit up.

"But you go ahead – I've got to use the loo first."

"I can wait," Theo offered.

Harry shook his head. "Nah, you go ahead. I'll just be a moment."

Theo stared at him for a moment. "Sure."

He rose from the table slowly, as though expecting Harry to change his mind, but when he said nothing more, Theo quickly traversed the pub and slipped through the front door.

Once the door swung shut, Harry warily made his way over to Professor Moody, who was just finishing his glass of firewhisky.

"Is there something I can help you with, professor?" he asked benignly.

The scarred man glanced at him grimly. "There is indeed, Potter. Follow me."

Harry hesitated, though.

Moody glanced over his shoulder, annoyed. "It's about Auror Black, Potter."

Eyes widening, Harry immediately strode forward, and Moody, satisfied, turned and began to lead him up a flight of stares.

Meanwhile, Harry heard Tom's faint voice stirring in the back of his head. The man had taken over briefly yesterday to demonstrate casting the killing curse - which Harry still hadn't managed to cast correctly - and was still quite weak as a result.

 _We should leave_ , he said, _If some ill fate has befallen Black, there is likely nothing you will be able to do._

Harry tensed, but didn't halt as Moody began to lead him down the hallway at the top of the flight of stairs.

 _Tell Moody that he should inform you back at the castle._

When moody enteered one of the empty rooms lining the hallway, Harry stopped in the doorway, not willing to enter the room behind him, quite on edge at this point.

"What is this about, sir?" he asked suspiciously.

Professor Moody stared at him, before removing a letter from his coat. "Something's happened at the Ministry – a contact of mine sent this along; it's from your godfather."

Harry's eyes widened and his stomach dropped, and he quickly reached forward to grab the letter – but as soon as he touched it, he felt a sharp twisting sensation in his navel.

A moment later he was thrown onto cold, wet grass.

Groaning, he rose to his feet, and looked around him in confusion. He was surrounded by grey mist, and the sun was only faintly visible overhead.

Panic seized him. Where was he? What had happened? Was the letter a portkey? Was it meant to take him to Sirius? Where was Sirius?

"Siri-"

The last thing he heard was the word _"Stupefy"_ , before the world sunk into a cold, empty black.

* * *

Jesus Christ, I hate this chapter. Oh well, next one's better.

I know, I'm awful, but I'll try to not leave you hanging, and post next Sunday.

In the meantime, input is appreciated as always :)


	15. Perspective

**Disclaimer:** Don't own nothin'. Your life is not your own. Also, some quotes from _The Goblet of Fire._

* * *

 **Chapter 15: Perspective**

When Harry awoke, the first thing he noticed was that he was not alone.

"...any wizard who had hated me...as so many of them still do. But I knew the one I must use, if I was to rise again, more powerful than I had been when I had fallen. I wanted Harry Potter's blood..."

 _My blood?_

He blinked blearily, willing his eyelids to flutter open; but as soon as his eyes comprehended the scene before him, he snapped them shut once again.

"...I wanted the blood of the one who had stripped me of my power thirteen years ago…"

Ever so slowly, with almost painful precision, he opened his eyes but a crack so as to remain unnoticed.

"...for the lingering protection his mother once gave him would then reside in my veins too...but how to get at Harry Potter?"

It was Voldemort: pale and serpentine – and very much alive, with crimson eyes blazing poignantly through a thin mist – robed in black, and surrounded by cloaked and masked figures who could only be his Death Eaters. They were standing around in a half-circle, surrounded by a ring of tall, looming, ominously jagged standing stones, to one of which was Harry tightly bound.

"...for he has been better protected than I think even he knows, protected in ways devised by Dumbledore long ago, when it fell to him to arrange the boy's future..."

The portkey had been a trick. Moody was...a servant of Voldemort? Why would an ex-auror and member of the Order of the Phoenix -

No, it didn't matter. Not now. What mattered was his present predicament...and how to escape it.

He needed a plan.

For a moment, he pressed his mind into a state of forceful calm, waiting for Tom to a chime in with his own assessment; but he was met with a stark silence. Alarmed, he reached inward with every measure of mental strength and composure he had, for any indication of Tom's presence, but he was again met with stillness...until he found it - a faint quiver in the back of his mind, a tempest stirring underneath, but somehow ruthlessly smothered, anchored to the back of his mind by some strange force that, now that he noticed it, seemed to be seeping into his skin from the air around him.

He was on his own.

But he certainly had no time to contemplate or bemoan that. Concentrating through the sleepy haze that was buzzing about in his head, he assessed his situation: he had been stunned or otherwise rendered temporarily unconscious and was bound to a large stone which jutted cruelly into his back – several metres high and at least a metre thick – by thick cords, and there was a deep gash in his left arm. He couldn't feel his holly wand in his pocket, but Tom's yew wand was still tucked in his sock; summoning it would be a simple task...

But then what?

He was hopelessly outnumbered; his chances of escaping were next to nothing. Even if he managed to untie himself without being noticed, he would still have to get far, far away before Voldemort or any of his Death Eaters noticed anything in order to have any reasonable likelihood of escaping with his life – which wasn't going to happen. If only he could fight them...but he couldn't – at least, not all of them.

Tom could. He silenced his thoughts once more and waited, just to be sure.

He heard nothing. There was no escape.

No, there was a way out; there's always a way out.

 _Think, Harry, think._

The only way to escape was to do something, something big, that would neutralize the greatest threats immediately and stun the remainder of his adversaries.

Well, that was it, wasn't it? Immediately, he knew what to do, and he had to do it right – no second chances would be granted to him.

"...Dumbledore invoked an ancient magic, to ensure the boy's protection -"

Harry flexed his fingers, and, taking a deep, shuddering breath, he summoned Tom's yew and phoenix feather wand his fingers, took aim as best as he could, and cried out, " _Avada Kedavra!_ "

An electrifying thrill rushed through his body as he watched a sickeningly foul flash a of green light erupt from the end of his wand. The vague feeling of glee and triumph, however, evaporated when Voldemort, with clearly practised precision, sidestepped the curse and spun around to face Harry, something akin to alarm and wonder glimmering in his crimson eyes...before it settled into a calculating shimmer.

Voldemort stared at him for a long moment, while Harry's fingers quivered around Voldemort's wand, desperately trying to shrug away the despair and simultaneous acceptance and denial of failure that was desperately clawing at his insides now. He wanted to cast the curse again, and again, and again, until it hit the Dark Lord, but he knew that the man would simply dodge again, and the strain of using the unforgivable was already wearing on him, even though he had only cast it once.

"The killing curse?" Lord Voldemort said quietly, some degree of wonder in his voice. It was then that Harry noticed that many of the Death Eaters were gaping at him, especially the one that, given his long blonde hair, was likely Mr. Malfoy.

Harry grit his teeth and whispered " _Diffindo_ ", a moment later falling to his knees once his bonds were cut. He hissed sharply as he landed, realizing that in addition to the deep, long cut along his left arm, it also seemed to be dislocated from his shoulder.

"And wandless magic as well," Voldemort mused, his voice eerily calm, arrestingly familiar, "I confess, Harry Potter, when I watched you sorted into Slytherin, I was...surprised. I thought, perhaps, you were more than I expected you to be. That the lies that have fed your legend might not be as fantastical as I had initially thought them to be. And then I faced you in that dark chamber below Hogwarts and witnessed your petty, childish anger, and I decided that I had overestimated you…"

Harry's stomach jolted, and suddenly he was gripped by this strange feeling that he and Voldemort might remember that night very differently; he'd been rash, sure, but petty and childish? No, he had been completely justified in his anger. Voldemort, on the other hand...

"...but then..." A smile curved Voldemort's lips. "When you confronted Wormtail and I in December, I knew my judgment had been too quick. And now...to successfully cast the killing curse at the tender age of fourteen, that is a feat I have not heard the likes of, and your ability to do so betrays an incredibly unexpected truth – that you must practise the dark arts, regularly and diligently. A wizard of so little experience would not be able to cast such an advanced curse otherwise."

"And...?" Harry grit out, ruthlessly squashing the unease growing inside him with the intense dislike he felt for the man in front of him….which was ever so slowly slipping through his fingers. He needed the anger, the dislike, the disdain as fuel, but it also….incited this strange, dull ache, this pressure that both smothered the unease and made his chest grow tight.

It was unnerving.

"And..." Voldemort's subtle smile grew into a grin, "How disappointed your parents would have been, Harry; casting unforgivables before you have even written your OWLs."

A jolt of indignance shot through him, but disappeared just as quickly, replaced by the quiet but suffocating tenseness that had been growing in him all this time, and a fleeting bewilderment.

Voldemort was scolding him.

No, no - he was taunting him.

Taunting him because they were enemies; rather, Voldemort was the predator, and he was his prey. Voldemort just liked to play with his food...before devouring it with gleeful cruelty.

But no, he couldn't think like that, not if he wanted any chance of leaving this eerie place alive; he couldn't afford consider the _state of things_.

Reality, now, in that moment, was an unbearably bitter, macabre painting, and if he were to look through it at the mirrored version of himself, the reflection presented to him would be of a dead fourteen year old boy, beyond saving.

So he wouldn't look. He would paint over reality with something strong and profound; some fantastical but grounded sentiment.

"My parents died so that I could live," Harry said loudly, evenly, tasting the bitter yet smooth and familiar taste of a truthful lie on his tongue, "They gave up everything so that I could have a future. I'm just following their example."

Voldemort threw back his head and laughed. "Pretty words, Harry, but -" He froze, and his red eyes flashed.

Harry followed his gaze, and his eyes came to rest on the wand he held in his hand.

"Where did you get that?" Voldemort asked quietly.

Harry swallowed something thick that had settled in the back of his throat, previous tumult forgotten. Deep down, he knew what was coming. "In Godric's Hollow," he responded, his voice just as quiet, "I found it on the floor...in my nursery." He swallowed again. "I've had it even longer than my own wand," he admitted.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "You will give that to me," he hissed.

Harry felt a sinking sensation in his chest. He'd grown attached to Tom's wand – not only was it a comfort to have an extra wand near by, it was also...he had grown close to it. "I'll give it to you," he said slowly, "If you return my wand to me."

Voldemort's eyes immediately snapped to a tall shape that looked vaguely like -

"Thaddeus!" he bit out.

Harry's stomach dropped. Why would Mr. Nott have his wand? Unless...

No. Not this. Not this too.

Frame as tall and stride as even as always, the man broke away from the circle, steadily heading toward Harry like a soulless ghoul, devoid of expression or recognition of any sort. And when he finally came to a halt in front of Harry, staring down at him from his considerable height, Harry met his eyes, probing, searching for any indication of what had happened and why he was doing this. Any apologetic glint or regretful sheen; even a look of grim acknowledgement. But all he got was...cold. Unfathomable cold.

"It was you," Harry whispered, the words slipping out from between his lips, "This is your fault."

The man continued to stare, no defence or refusal evident in his gaze.

"He'll never forgive you," Harry said, not venomously or cruelly; it was mere fact.

And that, _that_ was acknowledged - as truth. With some emotion Harry did not know.

The moment passed, and Mr. Nott slowly produced Harry's wand from within his robes. In a moment, Harry snatched it out of his hand, replacing it with Voldemort's wand.

Mr. Nott then slowly made his way over to Voldemort, bowing his head when he offered his master's wand to him.

Voldemort took his wand without looking at him, wordlessly passing the wand that had formerly been in his hands back to Mr. Nott. He was staring at Harry piercingly now, red eyes almost luminous in the thin mist that surrounded them.

He ran his fingers over the wand, muttering under his breath.

"And the last spell cast with it was..." His eyes lit up. "The cruciatus curse." His grin was back. "Tell me, Harry Potter, is there an unforgivable you cannot cast?"

Harry shrugged with feigned nonchalance. "As it happens, no, actually. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

He immediately regretted his cheekiness – Sirius had been a bad influence.

Voldemort threw back his head and laughed. "I think I might like that very much indeed, Harry." He looked at him in amusement. "Very well then, it shall be so - since you are so eager. Am I right in assuming that you have been taught how to duel?"

"Yes," Harry said stiffly, the unmistakable feeling of dread washing over him.

"Then you know, first we bow to each other, Harry," Voldemort said, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Harry. "Come, the niceties must be observed...Dumbledore would like you to show your manners. Bow to death, Harry."

The Death Eaters all laughed at that, as though it were not just a mundane and rather un-clever play on words, and Harry did his best to look unaffected, and smiled indulgently, before bowing slightly himself, though lower than Voldemort had.

"Good, good," Voldemort said smoothly, "And now you face me, like a man...straight-backed and proud, the way your father died..."

Harry felt something stir in his chest, and the suffocating feeling, if only so slightly, lifted.

 _The way your father died…_

Like a Gryffindor.

Like a soldier.

Like a man.

Like a human being.

Like someone _proud to be alive._

Imagine that...

He had lived nearly fifteen years now, and he knew that, in the grand scheme of things - or even in the general scheme of the average wizard - that was but a blink of an eye; but it had still been enough time for him to have felt pain he wished he had never felt, loneliness he wished he had never known, and despair he wished he had never been consumed by. It was enough time to make so, _so_ , many mistakes; and what was worse, do so many things that were unmistakably _wrong_ , of his own volition. It was long enough to take him to the brink of death far too many times - or maybe this was the one too many. And it was enough time to make him, more than once, ashamed of his own life.

But it had also been enough time to discover and explore and harness his magic; it had been enough for him to learn and puzzle out so many facts and theories and mind-boggling truths; it had been enough time for him meet Tom, and Theo, and Hermione, and Draco, and Sirius, and Remus…

It had been enough time to, if only for a few moments, feel happy.

And yeah, he was proud of that. Because even one happy moment was more than the little boy in the cupboard under the stairs could have even imagined.

"And now -"

Harry's eyes snapped upward, meeting Voldemort's crimson stare with newfound...well, it wasn't quite courage, but it was close enough.

"- we duel."

Voldemort raised his wand, and Harry mirrored his actions, a moment later dodging when Voldmort hissed out, " _Crucio_!"

Immediately back in sturdy stance, Harry flourished his wand and cried out, " _Expulso_!"

Voldemort wordlessly blocked the spell, of course, and sent another curse at Harry, which he didn't recognize.

 _"Sanguis fervo!"_

Voldemort shielded himself from the blood-boiling curse easily again, and sent yet another unfamiliar curse back at Harry.

As Harry wordlessly cast a protego and prepared to call out another spell, though, he suddenly felt very self-conscious about the sound of his own voice. Voldemort clearly wasn't going to be using anymore audible incantations, and he was overcome with a strong desire to do the same.

 _Vena lambera! Venter favor!_

Voldemort once again had a smile on his face when he blocked the wordless vein rupturing and stomach-boiling curses cast in quick succession. He quickly fired three curses Harry's way, which he was hard-pressed to block effectively, managing to construct two quick shields - one over his head, where one of the curses was about to pin him like a ballistic, and one near his legs to stop the whip-like one that lashed at his feet.

It was then that he noticed a bright blue light heading for his mid-section, and was forced to spin out of the way to avoid it, managing to cast a quick _bombarda_ as he did, barely giving himself time to regain his balance before he was forced to block another curse.

They continued to throw wordless curses at each other, and as the minutes wore on, Harry was starting to feel both relieved and annoyed.

 _Confringo!_

 _Evoco Pavor!_

 _Interfodio!_

He was annoyed because it was becoming painfully evident to him how limited his vocabulary of curses he could cast non-verbally was. He was limited to a very unimpressive nine curses and a bunch of charms, which were mostly unhelpful at the moment.

 _Reducto!_

 _Sectumsempra!_

Voldemort, the bastard, took a moment to laugh when he cast Professor Snape's slashing curse...which was actually probably pretty stupid, on second thought.

Poor Professor Snape was likely going to suffer later for that, later. Oops.

A very small, vindictive part of him told him that that was totally fine, after all the cauldrons he scrubbed last term.

That part of him would be thoroughly chastised later. _Later,_ because that was going to happen.

 _Confringo!_

 _Expulso!_

He was relieved because this wasn't as difficult as he feared, and he was starting to believe that he might be able to make it out of this alive. With every curse his spirits lifted, and with every movement he grew more excited, more hopeful. He was going to survive. He was going to live. Everything was going to be ok.

All he had to do was hang on just a little bit longer.

But that was presumptuous of him. Presumptuous and foolish. Soon, Voldemort's attacks became more rapid and unpredictable and vicious, and Harry was forced to assume a wholly defensive role in the duel.

 _Protego!_

 _Protego!_

 _Protego!_

Soon, he was no longer able to get any of his own curses in; all he could do was withstand the merciless barrage of dark magic the dark lord dispatched on him.

He knew he couldn't last like this. He knew that he would soon be worn down.

One curse made it through his shields, fracturing his left arm and leaving behind an ugly burn.

One did something positively _awful_ to his right foot, he was sure.

He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die.

And then it happened. A cruciatus curse slipped through his defences and his whole body seized up, consumed by the sensation of white-hot knives slicing through every inch of flesh on his body, piercing his muscles with precise smoothness and jagged brutality.

He refused to fall. He refused to cry out. He had withstood this before – he could do it again. Voldemort couldn't hold the curse forever. He couldn't. _He couldn't._

Could he?

His suddenly scattered, frail mind darted from partial thought to partial thought, trying to think of something, anything to bring an end to the pain. Ignore the all-consuming agony and focus on the feeling of his fingers being ripped to shreds and lit on fire? Somehow concentrate on the greenness of the grass below him, even as it was slowly consumed by the ugly grey at the edge of his vision? Marvel at the sky, while it was shrouded in an unforgiving mist? Meditate, focus his consciousness - his what? Grin and bear it, without moving the spasming muscles in his face?

 _Bite off my tongue and choke on my own blood?_

No, no.

 _Just don't fall._

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the pain disappeared, leaving Harry shuddering as his teeth chattered violently, barely able to stand; he was vibrating, not strongly, but like a frail autumn leaf. He was leaking, deflating, losing. And he didn't have much longer.

"A familiar sensation, Harry?" Voldemort said, almost teasingly, but at the same time shrewdly.

Harry looked up at him sharply, swaying a little as he did. Feeling nothing, understanding nothing, grasping nothing, he hollowly mirrored Voldemort's expression and tone, "I'm dead, aren't I? Can't feel a thing."

That….probably wasn't coherent.

A single question, and he barely recognised the meaning as he should have, he knew; it grabbed him and shook him and left him dumbstruck. This had to end.

"Killing you so soon seems almost to be a waste; what a puzzle you have turned out to be, Harry Potter."

This has to end.

He had to finish it; he had one more good hit in him...and he knew how to get himself a target.

So he coughed out a bitter laugh, and smiled mockingly, in the shark-like way he'd seen Tom do so many times before. "Almost like a riddle, isn't it?"

Sure enough, Voldemort's eyes flashed an enraged crimson and a barely present panic sparked in them. He raised his wand and Harry mimicked the action with just as much vigour.

 _"Avada Kedavra!"_

 _"Avada Kedavra!"_

Violent, rushing green met violent, rushing green – but whatever vague and half-baked plan had formed in Harry's mind vanished and was replaced by a blinding blank.

Suddenly, his wand was vibrating as though it had taken on a life of its own; neither shivering nor quivering – just living as if barely contained. His hand seized up as though there was this other force, while not completely foreign, still outside him, holding him in place. A narrow beam of light now connected the two phoenix feather wands, not green, but a deep, luminous gold. Harry, following the beam with disbelieving eyes, saw that Voldemort as well was gripping a wand that was shaking and vibrating, looking just as startled as he was.

And then things got really strange – and were his mind not already so unravelled, he might have been afraid – he felt the ground slip out from under him. A moment later he realized that both he and Voldemort were gradually rising, suspended by nothing, but still connected by a thread of pulsing, almost breathing gold. Slowly they glided away, until they came to rest outside the stone circle - and suddenly the strange energy that had been seeping into Harry's skin, suffocating him, had lifted.

It was then that the gold thread connecting them began to fray, splintering into thousands of strings that began to multiply and wreath their way around them like a thickening web, eventually merging into a great, golden dome.

Absently, Harry could hear shouts coming from stunned Death Eaters but they were distant and seemed utterly insignificant, until Voldemort himself chose to acknowledge them.

"Do nothing! Do nothing unless I command you!"

Harry almost laughed, though he had no idea why, and in a moment, he was glad he hadn't, because he might have ended up choking; things just got stranger from there.

An unearthly and beautiful sound filled the air; it emanated from every thread of the light-spun web vibrating around the two duellists, which, truly were not duelling anymore. Harry had no idea what was happening, but he knew somehow that this was now a contest of wills, of the barest kind. All he could do was hold on.

The sound twisted and turned until he realized that it was a kind of inhuman voice, singing.

 _Don't break the connection._

Somehow, he knew that those were the lyrics of the wordless song.

But even as his senses were immersed in this ethereal symphony of one, his wand began to vibrate more and more violently, and now large beads of light were sliding up and down the thread connecting the wands — Harry felt his wand give a shudder under his hand as the light beads began to slide slowly and steadily his way. The direction of the beam's movement was now toward him, from Voldemort, and he felt his wand shudder angrily.

As the closest bead of light moved nearer to Harry's wand tip, the wood beneath his fingers grew so hot he feared it would burst into flame. The closer that bead moved, the harder Harry's wand vibrated; he was sure his wand would not survive contact with it; it felt as though it was about to shatter under his fingers -

But he couldn't let that happen. Not now, not ever. He wouldn't lose his wand, his life, his magic.

Magic was everything.

Slowly, the beads quivered to a halt, and then, just as slowly, they began to move the other way, and Harry observed, shocked, that it was Voldemort's wand that was vibrating violently now, leaving the man looking jarringly astonished, and almost fearful.

And rightfully so, because when the beads of light finally reached his wand, it began to emit echoing screams of pain.

And then things got even stranger.

(It had occurred to Harry several times now that he might be dreaming or intoxicated or both but he daren't consider those possibilities in earnest.)

As the yew wand whined and wailed, a ghostly shape began to emerge from it, a greyish, cloudy head shape, followed by a body, eventually giving way to the shape of a ghostly apparition of a man he did not know**. It was followed by another, and then -

It started with a wisp of hair, and was followed by a horrifyingly familiar face; a face that had been lying with arms open guilelessly and frozenly weeping on the nursery floor of the Potter Cottage six months prior.

Harry's heart was hammering in his chest as he saw shoulders and bosom and waist follow the head, giving way to a ghostly image of Lily Potter – who looked startlingly alive, while being wreathed in pale smoke. And just as she was about to be fully emerged, she seemed to wake up, and her eyes followed along the golden thread until they met with Harry's wand, and snapped upward to meet his own eyes.

For a moment they stared silently, and everything else seemed to melt away for that split second – the eyes were not as tender as he remembered them, nor were they as cold as they had been in his vision at Privet Drive one year ago; no, they were simply human. Confused, regretful, longing, wistful, proud, worried, loving, and so, _so_ incredibly sad. Pallid and dead and yet, he knew, a lively green that he could only just not see -

 _"It's time to go home, Harry."_

At first his stomach lurched, and he recalled a dream – or rather, a series of dreams – in which an eerie idol of his mother murdered him and asked him to return to the afterlife with her...but then that one word, that one difference struck him.

 _Go home._

 _Leave._

 _Go home. To where it's safe._

Immediately, he knew what he had to do – and he had to do it quickly, because now, he could feel his very life intermingling with his magic as it slipped through his fingertips.

He swallowed a sob, almost wishing he could stay, a moment later nodding determinedly at his mother, who smiled tearfully back.

 _"Don't let them win, Harry."_

He nodded sharply, and then, he jerked his wand upward, ripping it from the thread with vehemence, causing a large spark and a great stormy cloud to rise up between him and his stunned opponent.

He had only a moment, he knew, and in that moment, he closed his eyes tightly and pictured Hogsmeade in his mind, clinging to every detail with every bit of mental force that he had, and then focused on the sensation that he'd never himself conjured.

There's a first time for everything.

He turned on the spot, and a moment later, he disappeared.

* * *

**In case it's not clear, the shapes Harry does not recognize are the people Tom killed in the process of having his fake horcruxes designed.

* * *

So...short, I know, but I hope it was somewhat satisfying. Things should get more interesting from here ;)

As always, I love to hear your thoughts. Please leave me a review, you know I love them!


	16. Temporary Hiatus Notice

Hey everyone,

I'm really sorry to do this, but I need to put this story on temporary hold right now (I'm hoping no more than another month or two). I want to make it clear that this is purely for personal reasons; I have the next few chapters partially written and about 15 more outlined, and I have the entire story planned - it's not that the content isn't there, I just have no energy to put it together.

I'm kind of feeling trapped right now - I lost my job for reasons I'm pretty sure weren't legal, but I have no way to prove it, my family situation is veering towards catastrophic, and my health is really up and down (doctors are experimenting with different treatments and side effects can be a bitch). I've got support where I need it and I've been managing to get some emotional release in the form of socialisation and music, but for some reason writing just isn't working right now. Believe me, if I could, I'd force myself to do it...but I feel like forcing myself is kind of a recipe for disaster at this point. I don't want to push myself into another episode, because I've been baldly told by my doctors that my brain deteriorates even more every time that happens. Yuck.

Again, I want to reiterate that this isn't like with my last project (Harry Potter and the Arcana) - I'd done minimal planning and was struggling with untreated schizoaffective disorder and was on a steady path downward. Right now I have plenty of content and the plan is to stay above water until I can pull things back together. I have faith that that's possible right now; it wasn't back then.

So...I'm really sorry, guys - as soon as I'm feeling better I'll post again. Until then, thanks for your patience. Hopefully I won't be gone for long.

Talk to you soon,

E

* * *

Edit: So... I know it's been two months and there's still no new chapter, but believe it or not, things got worse. It's a really long story, but it involves being bad at French and remembering things in general, trying to get the smell of decayed human corpse out of my house, reconciling a friendly acquaintance's suicide with my own past attempts, self-imposed guilt trips, my dog dying, and the worst depressive episode I've had in a very long time. It's been kind of like a really dark sit-com. You know, so pathetic it's almost funny.

Not to worry though, I'm starting to recover; I'm in Iceland as I write this (bad time for a trip, I know, but it's been planned for 6 months...and I've always insisted to my doctors that travelling is more effective than electroshock therapy), which in turn means I'm able to actually get up and do things, and I'll be starting a new job as soon as I'm back, so I'll have to stay up and keep doing things.

So...please be patient. I'm about halfway done chapter 16, and I'm ever so slowly progressing; all I need is some time. I'll try to have it out in two or three weeks. In the meantime, if there are any volunteers to help me out by reading it over before I post (don't know how good I'll be at QA right now), that would be appreciated.

Cheers,

E

Thanks :)


	17. The Waning of a Dream

**AN1:** I'm back! Kind of, at least...I am trying to write as much as I can, but it...isn't easy. So please be patient with me while I pull my life together.

 **AN2:** So...yeah, I know I say this a lot, but I'm not particularly happy about this chapter. It kind of just...pulls everything (or at least some things) together, and I feel like it's uninteresting and disjointed. I'm depressed, though, so everything is dull at best and soul-crushing at worst.

 **AN3:** I just wanted to say, thank you so much for all the support I've gotten over the last couple of months - I really needed it and it has helped so much. I appreciate every single review and message that was left for me, and all of them contributed to me finally being able to finish this chapter. You guys are awesome!

* * *

 **Chapter 16: The Waning of a Dream**

He was lying on his back, shallow puffs of breath pulsing through his lips. He was cold. He couldn't feel his limbs. His mind was empty.

A feeble voice in the back of his head told him that he was going into shock.

"Harry! Oh my god - Harry!"

It was his name. Someone was screaming his name.

They sounded worried. That was nice of them.

What was -

* * *

Harry blinked, squinting.

The room wasn't that bright, really; it was the Room of Hot Chocolate, lit only by a flickering hearth, mellow and comfortably amber as always. Still, though, the light levels seemed alarming to his weary, burning eyes.

When the blurry, reddish room finally came into focus, though, Harry was faced with a very familiar face, one that, for a reason that initially escaped him, instantly chilled him to the bone.

"Voldemort," he gasped, overcome by a flash of jolting nausea.

The red eyes framed by a snake-like face flashed bemusedly and hairless eyebrows contracted slightly.

Harry's eyes widened. "Tom!"

"I do prefer the other name, but yes," Tom said dryly, looking almost relieved by his declaration.

Harry smiled weakly. "I just...thought you were someone else for a moment...I guess..." He felt his smile bleed away from his face.

Tom's wry expression was also wiped from his face. "Indeed." He paused, looking eerily unsure for a split second. "You did well. You were faced with...improbable and daunting circumstances. Few wizards could have done better."

Harry's mouth suddenly went dry. "I...I ran."

"A prudent choice."

"But he's back - and I couldn't do anything - and -" Outrage overtook Harry's face. "But _you_ could have! Where _were_ you?"

Tom's eyes glinted. "Somewhere...dark. Dark and oppressively heavy. It was _incredibly_ fascinating."

Harry stared at him incredulously, somewhat horrified. " _Fascinating?"_

The room shuddered.

Tom's lips twitched; Harry couldn't tell whether it was amusement or anger that fuelled the subtle gesture. "Indeed it was. Some external force was...suppressing your magical core, containing it - not in order to prohibit use, I believe, but rather to prevent it from….leaking out and interfering with the master soul's; it is...difficult for me to know for sure, given that I was significantly indisposed at the time, but the stone circle we were situated in is the most likely culprit."

Harry, knowing next to nothing about stone circles, opened his mouth to instinctively ask how exactly that explained anything at all….and then closed it again. "We could have died."

He couldn't quite get past that bit.

Tom inclined his head. "That is true, and entirely unacceptable." His eyes narrowed. "Your rashness is incredibly foolish, and, frankly, _getting old_ at this point."

Harry scowled. "Moody is my _professor_ , and a former auror and member of the _Order of the Phoenix_! It was completely reasonable to assume that he might be the first person to convey confidential information if something happened at the Ministry."

"I warned you, that we must be wary of him," Tom said.

"For a completely different reason," Harry objected, unable to completely keep indignation out of his voice.

Meanwhile, the room had stopped shaking as his current circumstances normalized. For some reason being scolded by Tom was...the most comforting thing that could have happened at that moment, and he was suddenly aware of the warmth of the air around him as he relaxed into it. His most recent near-death experience was starting to feel like a memory instead of an ongoing reality.

"Then let this be an enforcement of a more general lesson which you somehow, after all we have been through, remain unable to learn - trust no one. We are surrounded by both visible and invisible enemies, and those that do not fall into those categories are, ultimately, potential enemies."

"Does it really have to be like that?" Harry asked quietly.

Tom eyed him closely. "For now."

Harry sighed.

"Nevertheless, we must now focus on what will follow -"

"Wait, I have more questions."

Tom sighed impatiently. "About _what_?"

"How did we even escape? What was that...that...golden thread, and the dome, the ghosts -"

"Priori incantatum, the result of two wands with twin cores being pitted against each other," Tom said dismissively. "It's hardly important. You can read about it later."

"You never teach me anything anymore," Harry muttered, disgruntled.

"You know very well that that is a lie," Tom said disdainfully, "I merely see no need to spoon-feed you information you can easily acquire on your own. Now, back to the matter at hand."

Harry sighed, absently thankful that he had the ability to sigh, that the long breath didn't get stuck in his chest.

"Our plans must now be greatly accelerated, and must be altered in the face of imminent failure."

" _What_?"

Tom's eyes narrowed. "To the world Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived and the heir to the Black fortune, but ultimately nothing more than a fourth year Hogwarts student with a decent reputation -"

"Decent," Harry repeated, annoyed.

"Yes, _decent_. Your grades dropped this year - "

"I've been busy!"

"- and you were in detention for nearly two months."

"And whose fault was that?"

"As a mere fourth year student -"

Harry scowled at the evasion.

"- you have little influence on the Ministry of Magic and Wizengamot, and have had virtually no time to whittle away at the Wizarding World's preconceptions and biases. Things _will_ destabilize from now on - preconceptions will be destroyed and biases will be rendered obsolete - but there is no guarantee that they will do so in a way that benefits us. The earliest stages of our plan need to be reworked, as failure is incredibly likely at this point," Tom said evenly.

Harry's mouth went dry. "You're...admitting to failure."

"I did not account for such a rapid acceleration of events," Tom replied, tone still eerily even, "Perhaps failure is not the right word; perhaps it is better to say that the early stages of our plan have been rendered obsolete. Thus, we will need to devise an alternative."

"And...and what is that?" Harry asked, somewhat shaken.

"Wait."

"...what?"

"We must wait. It would not be prudent to act when there are so many unknowns and volatile circumstances. We will wait."

"And then what!?"

"You will know what you need to know when you need to know it."

"So you don't know then," Harry accused.

"A plan is being formulated as we speak," Tom snapped, "And the sheer number of unknown variables make it so complex that I could not possibly communicate it to a mere boy of fourteen within any reasonable amount of time; and even if I could, I would not be inclined to put in the effort required to do so. Mind your place, Harry. You are a _child_. You do not know everything, nor do you need to."

Harry could feel himself shaking, while his heart pounded and his chest heated up; any semblance of relaxation he felt moments ago had fled with Tom's rant. He knew Tom was right; but that didn't make him any less angry at the blatant dismissal.

"Fine," he bit out, before marching out of the room.

Tom didn't try to stop him.

* * *

Harry blinked, wincing as the bright golden rays of the June sun seized and seared his eyes.

Why couldn't he just wake up in the dark for once? Like at night or something?

Oh well, never mind.

When his eyes finally adjusted, the first thing that he deduced that he was in the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts, which was honestly not very impressive at all, because it was an all too familiar scenario at this point. After visiting the infirmary for at least a couple dozen times, now, he was well acquainted with the exact degree of roughness of the worn, white cotton sheets and the precise angle at which the afternoon sun peeked through the castle turrets and refracted through the windows. And then there was that distinctive smell of Madame Pomfrey's home-brewed cleaning potions and freshly brewed medicines and elixirs concocted according to Professor Snape's carefully tweaked recipes.

The second thing that he noticed was that he was not alone.

Madame Pomfrey was sitting beside his bed, a book in her right hand, while her left tapped on his bedside table anxiously, causing the bouquet of blue and yellow orchids seated beside her to shudder continuously.

"Madame Pomfrey?"

"Harry!" the woman exclaimed, nearly dropping her book.

He smiled sheepishly, before his expression morphed into one of confusion. "What...happened?" The last thing he remembered, outside of the Room of Hot Chocolate was lying on the ground, pain, more pain...

Madame Pomfrey slowly recomposed herself. "You were found in Hogsmeade," she said, sounding distressed, despite her obvious effort to remain calm, "The witnesses say you apparated, and you were splinched quite badly. You nearly lost your arm."

Harry winced.

The woman's voice was strained as she continued tightly. "Your other shoulder was dislocated, and you were suffering quite badly from the the muscle spasms and convulsions characteristic of the cruciatus curse. Additionally, tests indicated that your magical core had somehow been forcefully disrupted - not to mention that you were, and still are, magically exhausted." She paused. "You're only fourteen, Harry! What in heaven's name possessed you to try to apparate!"

"It was that or let Voldemort kill me," Harry said quietly.

Madame Pomfrey froze at that, and slowly opened her mouth, but whatever she was going to say was interrupted.

"Is that so?"

Both Harry's and Madame Pomfrey's heads snapped toward the entrance of the infirmary, where Professor Snape was standing, his face sallow and clearly weary, but nearly expressionless as it often was.

"Yes, it is," Harry replied quietly.

Professor Snape nodded slowly. "That confirms the information we have received thus far."

"You weren't there," Harry commented without thinking, causing Madame Pomfrey's mouth to fall open slightly.

The professor's face remained unmoved. "I was in a staff meeting," he said, almost dismissively.

Harry's eyebrows rose.

"The Headmaster will want to hear your account - "

Madame Pomfrey glared viciously at him.

"- once you have recovered," he finished, a little disgruntled.

"I can speak now -"

"No, you cannot," Madame Pomfrey cut in, "You're still exhausted and need to rest - your magical core might retain permanent damage if you don't. You shouldn't even be awake yet, Harry."

Harry paled slightly, but persisted. "But, don't you need - "

"We have interrogated those involved and have all the necessary information, for now," Professor Snape interrupted, "The details of your account, however, will likely prove crucial in the future. As is such, it is in everyone's best interest that you return to unconsciousness immediately."

"But wait, Moody -"

"Was an imposter," Professor Snape interrupted once again, striding over to Madame Pomfrey, "And has been dealt with." He glanced down at the school matron, handing her a small vial. "This should keep him asleep."

The man stalked off, then, leaving Harry confused and exasperated. He turned to Madame Pomfrey and opened his mouth to ask about his Head of House's sparsely volunteered information, but the matron cut in firmly, "Drink this first."

Reluctantly, Harry took the potion being handed to him and swallowed it in one gulp. The taste was vaguely reminiscent of rotten fruit, but it hardly bothered him at this point. "So what happened?"

Madame Pomfrey hesitated, sighing shakily. "A few minutes after you disappeared, Mr. Nott returned to the Hogshead to look for you...he arrived just as the... _imposter_ was leaving. When he couldn't find you, he ran after the imposter, and...well, the witnesses say that he ended up drawing his wand and threatening the man. Professor McGonagall arrived just as they were beginning to cast spells."

Harry's eyebrows rose, and he didn't know whether to be amused or concerned about Theo's rash behaviour. He could hear Tom scoffing in the back of his mind. "And the imposter - who was it?"

"It was Barty Crouch Junior," the woman said quietly, sounding very grim, and very...sad. "He was using polyjuice potion to disguise himself."

Harry blinked, suddenly realizing he was feeling very drowsy. "I...I thought he was dead," he said through a yawn.

Madame Pomfrey's face fell. "Well," she said gently, "I don't know the details, but -"

And that was when everything turned to black.

* * *

When Harry next regained consciousness, it was to the sound of shuffling beside his bed. Blinking, he squinted in the faint silver glow of the moonlight, and though he could see very little - Madame Pomfrey must have removed his glasses - he immediately recognized the silhouette standing on his left.

"The flowers were from _you?_ "

Theo froze, and though he couldn't see it, he was sure he was blushing. "I mean, _someone_ had to do it."

Harry laboriously slipped on his glasses and frowned bemusedly, albeit blearily. "Why?"

"Well, you're in the hospital wing, right? You've been here for nearly a week - if you didn't have any flowers, that would be just _sad_. Besides...my mother always said that magically conjured flowers lift peoples' spirits. I'm not sure if that's true, though - she...just really liked..flowers..." he trailed off.

Harry chuckled wearily. "I'm grateful."

Theo smirked slightly. "As you should be. It was incredibly difficult to smuggle them in here, for you. You're under 'quarantine'. More like armed protection, though, what with the teachers patrolling outside the infirmary."

Harry frowned. "I see. So...if no one's allowed to see me, does anyone know what happened?"

"Everyone knows you were kidnapped."

"I mean after that."

Theo frowned. "You were injured trying to escape, right?"

Harry's eyes widened, and he felt marginally more awake. "You mean _no one_ knows yet?"

"Knows what?"

"That Voldemort is back."

Even through the darkness he could see that the colour had completely drained from Theo's face. "Wh-what?"

"He has a body; he's back."

"No...no...that's impossible. Are - are you sure?" Theo whispered faintly.

"It was hard to miss," Harry said wryly. "They resurrected him -"

"They?" Theo interrupted frantically. "They - who was - was...was my father there?"

Harry froze, suddenly aware of the fact that his next sentence could completely dismantle Theo's world. Should he lie? Tell only a partial truth? Be honest? The truth would crush Theo, and over the last few months, the idea of the other boy experiencing any kind of pain had become.. increasingly vexing. He didn't know why, but even duelling him was mentally taxing these days; the thought of injuring or possibly killing his closest friend with a curse made his stomach turn. The likely culprit was the time they'd spent alone together, he supposed. Apparently even he could get...attached.

 _Tell him. He deserves to know._

Tom had no interest in what Theo deserved, he knew, but he was right - Theo needed to know what had transpired.

"Harry!"

"Yes," he said quietly. "He was the first one there. He...was the one to perform the ritual."

Theo stumbled backwards and fell into the chair beside Harry's bed. "No...no, it can't - he wouldn't…"

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "I'm really sorry."

"It's not your fault!" Theo hissed, "It's his! That - that _fucking bastard,_ how could he!?"

"I'm sorry," Harry repeated, not really knowing what else to say.

"Stop saying that! It's not your fault!"

"I don't know what else to say," Harry admitted.

"Then...then just don't say anything," Theo said, sounding incredibly defeated.

Harry nodded slowly. He looked up at Theo's face, and saw that he was clearly holding in tears. Overwhelmed by the feeling that he couldn't just do nothing, he reached out to place his hand on Theo's right hand - it seemed like the only gesture he could make without intruding on the other boy's obvious pain - but then he froze, suddenly gripped by this irrational fear: that the gesture would end up doing nothing more than causing more pain, somehow.

So he withdrew his hand, discontented but now determined to do nothing but stare helplessly.

His eyes didn't move, until they fluttered shut, and he was pulled into slumber once more.

* * *

Again, Harry was met with that stupid, awful June sun when he was roused from slumber; thankfully, however, he was feeling much more rested and awake than the last two times he had woken up.

"Ah, excellent! Madame Pomfrey predicted that you would wake just about now."

Harry's eyes snapped to his left, and there he found Professor Dumbledore sitting at his bedside, just as he had been at the end of his first year. He was wearing very similar robes, in fact.

"Professor," Harry greeted, sitting up slowly. He glanced out the window, catching sight of the fresh orchids at the other side of the table. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

The man chuckled. "I sense some resentment in your voice, Harry."

"My eyes hurt."

The man continued to chuckle.

Harry stifled a scowl. "Is there something I can help you with?" He asked politely.

The Headmaster's chuckles died away, at that. "Yes, there is, Harry. If you are amenable, I would very much like to speak with you about the events of June the fifth."

Harry nodded, his mind scattering as he tried to discern what he should say and how he should say it. Should he tell the man the details? Claim to have memory loss? How many details could he afford to relay? How many could he afford to withhold? He needed to buy time.

"If I may ask, professor, would you first tell me what you already know?"

"A reasonable request." The man folded his hands on his lap. "We know that Barty Crouch Jr. managed to disguise himself as Alastor Moody with polyjuice potion at the beginning of the school year, and that he was holding Alastor captive all this time."

Harry grimaced. "Is...he still alive?"

"We were able to capture Barty before he...finished his task. Alastor is a little worse for wear, but ultimately his lively self."

 _Pity._

Harry nodded. "That...that's good. Did you learn anything from Crouch?"

"We interrogated him briefly before the Minister of Magic arrived," Professor Dumbledore replied. "He revealed a rather elaborate plot to lure you from the school - "

Harry's eyes widened. "He placed my name in the Goblet of Fire, didn't he?"

Professor Dumbledore's lips twitched. "Quick as ever, I see. He did indeed. When that failed, however, he shifted his plans. The goal, as you must be aware, was to abduct you and use you to resurrect Voldemort, which we know transpired. My sources have informed me that he has most certainly returned to full power, which I believe you can confirm."

Harry nodded mutely.

"We received little more information, however; when the Minister and several aurors arrived to take him away, he attempted to escape and was killed during his flight."

Harry's lips parted in poorly contained shock. "Excuse me for saying so, Headmaster...but how could you let that happen?"

Professor Dumbledore looked quite grim, at that. "I have my suspicions….that the act wasn't entirely accidental."

Harry frowned. "But why? He could still have had valuable information!"

The Headmaster was silent for a moment. "I believe it would be in Minister Fudge's best interest to avoid a public trial."

"Why? To avoid having to come clean about Crouch escaping?"

Professor Dumbledore paused once again. "In part, yes, I suppose that would have crossed his mind; however, I do believe he is more concerned with preventing mass hysteria due to Voldemort's return."

Harry's eyes widened. "But then...no one knows, and he doesn't intend for them to?"

Professor Dumbledore nodded gravely. "So it would seem."

"But why?" Harry asked desperately, "How are people supposed to protect themselves if they don't know he's back?"

"I doubt the Minister is concerned with that right now, Harry, seeing that he himself does not believe that Voldemort has returned."

Harry's jaw dropped. " _What?"_

The elderly man beside him - who he suddenly realized looked very weary - smiled sadly. "Denial is a powerful force in the human mind, Harry - and one of our most dangerous foes." He paused. "We have far too many of those, don't we?" he mused with a wistful look on his face.

"There are many who would rather dwell in a dream than accept the reality that is themselves and the world around them. This dangerous state of mind, while in the short term may allow healing and growth, will always prove fatal if maintained; what was once a shell of sorts will become a live burial."

Harry's stomach squirmed at the statement, overcome for a moment by the suggestion that the statement was also directed at him. When he looked up, he saw Professor Dumbledore looking at him intently, and found himself staring back just as intently.

"Do you think I'm in denial about something, professor?" he asked quietly, unable to help himself.

He felt Tom stir in the back of his mind.

The professor was silent for a moment. "I am not quite sure that that is a conversation either of us are ready to have, Harry. Do you think so?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but no words followed.

"I thought not."

Harry nodded mutely, and was silent for a moment before he decided a change in subject, or rather a reorientation, was in order. "Then, sir, has the minister forbidden you from saying anything?"

"Not in so many words, but, essentially, yes."

"Then...does no one know?"

"As of this morning, they do."

Harry stared at him. "Sir...you went against the Minister's wishes?"

The professor's lips twitched. "It's not the first time, Harry." He paused, and his eyes twinkled. "And I should hope it will not be the last."

Harry chuckled weakly.

"Now then," Professor Dumbledore said, suddenly much cheerier, "Perhaps you will return the courtesy, and share your tale of, so it would seem, mayhem and daring."

Harry's weak smile remained on his face. "Of course, sir; I...the portkey dropped me somewhere - I don't know where, and I was stunned right away. When I woke up...he was already back. I mean, he already had a real body, and had summoned his Death Eaters." He paused, considering how to to proceed. Brief but precise was probably the way to go. "I tried to attack him, and cut myself free….and then he insisted on duelling. I managed to apparate partway through the duel."

The Headmaster nodded slowly. "Is there anything you can tell me about the location where the resurrection took place?"

Harry nearly sighed with relief; he didn't want to have to relay the details - what with the threat of Azkaban hanging over his head - and Professor Dumbledore didn't seem all that intent on knowing thim. Perhaps he already knew enough…

"Well, it was in a stone circle of some sort. It was quite large, and looked very old...but other than that…"

"A stone circle," the professor mused. "How curious."

Harry frowned. "How so, sir?"

"Stone circles are a very old kind of magic - an old kind of magic rooted in rituals and pagan ceremonies; very ancient and very powerful," the professor said thoughtfully, "This kind of magic was typically light magic, however - rather advanced light magic that I would have not expected Voldemort or his followers to be capable of."

"What kind of light magic, sir?" Harry asked, very curious. He hadn't had the chance to satiate his curiosity with Tom, after all, and was still quite annoyed with the man, which was what was likely preventing him from returning to speak to him.

"Well," Professor Dumbledore said, "Stone circles were said to generate magical fields that could act as a conduit for the soul. In doing so, they could be used to transfer what ancient texts referred to as 'spiritual quantities' or leveraged as a way of communing between 'spirits'."

Harry blinked. "Spirits, sir?"

"A rather ambiguous term. The texts I have read seem to use the term interchangeably between noncorporeal entities, the soul, and the mind."

Harry's heart rate picked up, excited by what seemed to be the fact that his instincts were correct - this _was_ important….and likely to aid him and Tom immensely in their quest to give him his own body.

"So then, sir, is the reason we're not taught about them in school that they're rather dangerous like soul magic?"

"Quite so. Moreover, they have fallen out of use almost entirely; whatever 'noncorporeal entities' they were used to commune with seem to have largely disappeared from the magical world."

Harry frowned. "But why?"

"Well, as I recall, the story goes that these 'spirits' grew angry when wizards began to use wands rather than request their help, and abandoned humanity out of spite. Another says that the lack of offerings drove them into hibernation. Whether either account is credible, or if such beings ever truly existed, I don't know."

Harry pursed his lips. "And this is the case everywh -"

"You're awake!"

Both Harry and Professor Dumbledore's gazes swept toward the door of the hospital wing, where a beaming Sirius stood with what looked like a bag of candy in his hands.

"Excellent! I keep being told that I'm missing your brief moments of consciousness," the man continued, striding into the room.

It was then that the Headmaster rose to his feet. "Well then, I believe this is my cue to take my leave, and allow the two of you to catch up." He glanced down at Harry. "Perhaps we can continue our discussion another time."

"Of course sir."

"Then off I go. I wish you both a pleasant afternoon."

"Yeah, you too," Sirius said as the man walked off.

Sirius then turned to Harry. "Discussion?"

"Yes, we -"

"Never mind that," Sirius said excitedly, plopping himself down in the chair beside Harry's bed. "I want to hear _all_ about your epic duel and victory over that snake-faced bastard!"

Harry stared at him amusedly. "It was hardly a victory, Sirius. He got out of it nearly unscathed, and, well, look at me."

Sirius waved off his objection. "He meant to kill you, you meant to escape, he failed, you succeeded - you won."

Harry laughed incredulously. "If you say so, Sirius."

"Oh, I do."

"Well...I guess it started with an envelope…"

* * *

Soon after Sirius left, Harry was discharged from the hospital wing, much to his relief; he didn't know if he could handle staying while conscious, knowing he had already been there for more than a week. Craving a fresh set of robes, the first thing he did was head back to his dorm - which meant traversing the Slytherin Common Room.

The room fell silent when Harry crossed over the threshold, and it seemed that everyone, Harry included, was holding their breath.

Were they expecting him to say something?

 _Well don't just stand there,_ Tom said, annoyed, _Say something, and make it...inspiring._

Inspiring? Right...

"It's true," he said finally. He did not speak loudly, but he was sure everyone heard him. Many gasps were heard, along with some whimpers and cursing, as well as some excited murmurs.

He located the faces of his friends. Theo looked distant and his eyes could only be described as dead, and Draco looked terrified. Daphne and Tracey were holding each other's hands. Avery...he was pale-faced, and appeared to be in a kind of trance.

"He has been resurrected," Harry continued softly, keeping his voice even and curt, "I was there, I saw him with my own eyes - for the third time. And for the third time, he failed to kill me. He _failed, again._ " He paused. "Keep that in mind when you make your decision."

And with that he swept through the Common Room, striding confidently down the corridor and shutting his dorm room door firmly behind him. As soon as he did, he let out a shaky breath, and hobbled towards his bed and collapsed on top of it.

A moment later the door opened, though, and Theo quietly slipped into the room.

"Harry."

Harry glanced over at Theo, admittedly slightly annoyed that he couldn't get changed. After 4 years of living with 5 other boys, he still didn't feel comfortable changing in front of others.

"Yes?"

Theo hesitated. "Can we talk?"

"About what?" Harry asked, not bothering to disguise his weariness.

Theo cautiously sat down on his bed. "Well, first...well, I'm sorry for snapping at you the night before last. I was...in shock."

Harry shrugged. "No worries. To be fair, I was being a bit of an moron - I deserved it."

Theo smiled wryly.

"And second?"

Theo took a deep but unsteady breath. "I...wanted to tell you that I'm not going home this summer."

Harry frowned. "Why?"

Theo looked a little incredulous at the question. "Because - because I can't bear to look at him."

Harry looked concerned. "But where will you go?"

Theo shrugged. "My grandparents, maybe. They're blood purists but they've never liked Voldemort that much - that's why they moved to France. They thought his methods were...barbaric."

Harry nodded slowly. He didn't really know what to think about it; something was telling him he should be concerned, while something else told him that Theo was just reacting, that he'd change his mind when the time came. "Ok, well...thanks for telling me."

Theo smiled weakly. "Don't mention it." He paused. "I'll let you get changed."

The other boy then left, then, leaving Harry with his concern and the pile of neatly folded robes that had been waiting for him on his bed.

* * *

"And then I cast another curse, at the same time as him, and our wands connected with this golden light, and - well, it was pretty weird. We started floating, and then we were engulfed in a dome of golden light, and I used that as a distraction and then apparated," Harry finished, his voice more than a little lacklustre.

He had told the story more than a few times now - it had been nearly a week since he left the hospital wing - and it was getting old; however, the members of the Order had wanted more details - after several chants of "Sto-ry time! Sto-ry time!" he'd finally given in and had agreed to, instead of teaching one last new curse, do a (more or less) play-by-play account of his duel with Voldemort, sans his two uses of what was commonly regarded as the worst unforgivable curse.

"Wicked," Draco and Terry said at once.

Harry looked around the room, finding everyone looking rather transfixed, despite how deadpan his telling had been.

"But what was the golden light?" Hermione asked eagerly.

Harry shrugged carelessly. "Dunno. I'll look it up later. Haven't really gotten a chance yet, what with catching up with classes and everything..."

"I'll help!" she immediately put in, sticking up her hand.

He smiled weakly. "Sure. Meet you in the library at 6 tomorrow morning?"

"Of course!"

He nodded. "And is everyone sure they don't want to learn the toe-breaking curse?"

"Don't know about them, but I'm knackered," Tracey said, That Transfiguration exam was _long_."

"It was also yesterday," Harry commented.

"It was _really_ long."

"Too long," Michael grumbled.

The others nodded in agreement, except Daphne, who, despite being the one who struggled the most during the exam (she didn't like transfiguration much), looked a little disappointed. No doubt she was too tired to object, though.

"Right then," Harry said, trying not to sound too disgruntled, "In that case, I want everyone to do some research over the summer and find a few spells you'd like us to learn. Doesn't have to be anything spectacular, but do try to make it a little enlightened."

There were some murmurs of agreement; only Hermione looked particularly excited.

"And finally...stay safe, everyone. Be careful, keep looking over your shoulder, and don't say anything stupid. And for Merlin's sake, don't say a word about these meetings. Not all of you can afford to be seen with the Boy-Who-Lived anymore, and those of you who can probably shouldn't be associating with the children of Death Eaters. The world is changing, now, fast. We don't have to change if we don't want to, but if we want to survive, we need to pretend otherwise." He paused, noticing some doubtful looks. "When you signed up, you signed up to become liars - that was the price you paid for knowledge; to become part of this lie. It's time to pay up."

He received seven determined nods at that, and offered a half-smile in return.

"Have an excellent summer, everyone."

The members of his Order began to filter out of the room at that, everyone wishing him a good summer in turn and thanking him for everything he'd taught them...until only Theo remained.

Harry took a deep breath and put a neutral look on his face. "Oh, good, you stayed," he began briskly, "I figured it might not hold as much weight if the others were here so I thought it best to wait…"

He glanced up at Theo, who, though clearly pensive, was eerily expressionless.

"I want you to know -" he froze, and his austere demeanour crumbled in a second, leaving him with a much softer voice as he continued, "I want you to know that...well, stay safe. It doesn't matter what you have to do or say, just...stay safe. And I know it will be hard, but I really do think...the safest place for you is...home."

Several seconds of silence followed his declaration.

"No."

Harry started slightly, caught off guard for a moment. "No? No what?"

"No, I'm not going back."

"But Theo -"

Theo's steely-eyed stare halted his objection.

"I won't go back to my father - not ever," Theo said vehemently, "I won't pretend that he's got it right and that I'm... _his son_ , that I'll take the mark as soon as I'm old enough and be _just like him_. I won't grovel at the Dark Lord's feet - hell, I won't even call him the Dark Lord. Voldemort. His name is Voldemort."

Harry's eyes widened, and Theo took a step forward.

"I won't lie and say I was never your friend, and I won't stand by idle while you're running or hiding or fighting. I won't pretend I can stand the idea of you being gone and I won't pretend that you don't matter more to me than anything else. I won't pretend that I -"

Whatever word he had to say never made it through his lips, and the unfinished promise lingered in the air.

Harry found himself frozen, stunned by the sudden declaration.

Theo took a deep breath. "You may want me to lie and pretend and stand idle, but I won't. I can't."

Harry forced a weak smile onto his face. "Come on, Theo," he said, his voice quietly chastising, "We're Slytherins, remember? Leave the bravery for the Gryffindors."

Theo laughed, a sharp sound both derisive and hysterical. "Bravery? It's not bravery. I'm not _brave_ , I never have been."

"That's -"

"You're right, Harry, we're Slytherins, and Slytherins value self-preservation...but sometimes preserving yourself means preserving someone else."

Harry was silent for a moment. "This is you, taking a side then?"

Theo shook his head. "I took a side when I shook your hand."

"You didn't know, then, what it meant; you still don't -"

"But I do," Theo said firmly.

"No, you don't!" Harry snapped, "I don't want to just _live_ , Theo, I don't want to just survive! Do you really think you know what, exactly what, that means? I don't want to outrun Voldemort, I want to defeat him, and everyone who stands with him. I want to be the end of his story and the beginning of my own. And I don't just stand against Voldemort and his Death Eaters - I stand against the world. I have ideas, I have plans, but I don't have any guarantees to go along with them. If I win, I win everything, but if I lose….then I'm lost forever. I won't get a second chance. I'll lose everything." He took a shuddering breath, and stared at his closest friend in the eye. "I will always value your support, Theo, and I...I don't know if I can do what I have to without it - but you can still support me without making the same awful bet I am. You don't have to go all in."

"I told you," Theo said calmly, reaching out and taking Harry's left hand. "I understand. I meant what I said, last year; together, we're going to change the world. We'll survive it, we'll conquer it, and we'll transform it into something better. We'll write our own story, and it'll be a great one."

"And if we fail?" Harry said quietly.

Theo smiled slightly, and his hold on Harry's hand tightened. "Then we fail; you fail, and I fail, and neither of us do it alone." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, opening them a moment later and piercing Harry's gaze with an unbreakable solidarity. "Then the story ends a tragedy...but I'll be with you until the very last page. I'm with you to the end."

"I…" Harry's mouth was suddenly very dry, his voice hoarse. "I don't understand. I don't understand why you - why me?" He withdrew his hand and backed away. "I've done nothing, _nothing_ to deserve this. I'm a good wizard but I'm not impossibly good; I'm smart, but I'm no genius; I...I don't think I'm evil but I'm certainly no saint - there's _nothing_ about me that's worth what you're offering."

Theo crossed his arms. "I'm not _offering_ anything. I'm shoving it in your face and demanding you take it."

Harry laughed, a little hysterically. "Fine! Shoving, demanding, whatever! You still don't owe me anything."

"Of course I don't owe you anything! You're my _friend_. You're more than my friend. I thought...I thought we'd decided that."

"But why?" Harry said weakly. "I don't understand. I've never understood. Hermione and Draco, I understand; they both owe me their lives. Terry, Michael, Tracey, and Daphne? I get it, I have qualities they admire and they don't know me well enough to know any better. But you? You know who I am. I'm a murderer and a liar and I threatened to wipe your mind on our very first day at Hogwarts."

A small smile crept across Theo's lips, and his expression turned fond. "Yeah, I remember. I remember being terrified of you and resenting you, being amazed by you and fascinated by you. I remember spending hours trying to figure you out. But then you apologized, and...I realized that you were just as afraid as I was. I realized that you weren't like the others, like spoiled, petty Draco and smug, entitled Blaise and bumbling Crabbe and brutish Goyle; you weren't suspended by their naivety, and you were barely hanging on. And it occurred to me, then, that you knew lack, and loss, and you were deathly afraid to lose what little you had. You had nothing, and no one. And you were the loneliest person I'd ever met."

Harry opened his mouth, but realized he had nothing to say.

"I think that...when people suffer, they...uncover a deeper reality. I think that when we lose something, more of the world is revealed to us; maybe it's just the empty space where that thing once was, or maybe it's something...more. All I know is that I kept finding myself in these places where no one else seemed to be able to follow. Except you. I don't know what sort of places they were, or how I got there...it was just a feeling. I'm not even sure what kind of feeling it was. But when I got that feeling...you didn't seem as far away as everyone else. And I wasn't alone anymore."

He took a step forward, and another, and another, until he was barely a foot away from Harry. Once again, he took his hands in his.

"And before I knew it…"

The words hung in the air.

Harry took a shuddering breath, and stared Theo resolutely in the eye. "To the end."

"To the end."

* * *

"It's good to be back," Sirius said wistfully, leaning back in the chair he was seated on in the Headmaster's office. "Though, I have to admit, the last time I was here in particular wasn't particularly pleasant for anyone involved."

Much to Harry's surprise, the Headmaster didn't look remotely amused by the comment.

It was the day before the end of term, and Harry had received a note that morning informing him that Professor Dumbledore wished to speak to him; and soon after he arrived, Sirius did as well.

"So what's this about, Dumbledore? You're not going to retroactively expel me or something, are you? Because I don't think my boss would like that."

This was followed by a wry smile. "No, Sirius, I'm afraid the matter at hand concerns Harry."

Sirius looked rather alarmed at that. "What? What's wrong?"

Harry stirred uncomfortably in his seat.

"I believe, Sirius, that it is time Harry knew the truth."

Harry frowned.

"The truth? What truth are we talking about, Dumbledore?"

"The truth of why Voldemort desires his death so fervently; the truth behind his scar," the elderly man said softly.

Harry straightened in his seat, and Sirius's gaze visibly sharpened. "I agree. I was going to tell him myself this summer."

The Headmaster nodded. "Very well, then. I suppose, Harry, that you have no objections to having this knowledge imparted to you."

He shook his head, perhaps a little too eagerly. "None at all, sir."

The man smiled, perhaps a little sadly. "Very well - then I will tell you a story, which, short as it may be, marks of the turning point in the war." He paused. "The story begins on a cold, wet night early in the year nineteen-eighty, when I was interviewing a candidate for the vacant Divination position. The interview was anything but remarkable - until the very end, when something rather startling was revealed to me: the candidate was a prophet."

Harry could feel his heartbeat speeding up.

"A prophecy was made to me that day, one with two parts."

"Two parts, sir?"

"One part that was relayed to Voldemort by one of his Death Eaters, and one that was not. The first part of the prophecy was as follows: _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…"_

As he listened, transfixed by the professor's tranquil recitation, he was suddenly struck by a rather dire conundrum - how would he react to hearing the prophecy? Would the professor detect a fake reaction? Did it even make sense for him to act surprised? Was it a surprising fact at all?

In the end he settled on adopting a look of vague realization.

"And the second -" Professor Dumbledore was eying him closely now "- the part that never reached Voldemort's ears, went: … _.and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have the power the Dark Lord knows not...and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives….the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…."_

Harry's head was spinning. He had a power Voldemort - no, Tom didn't know about? One of them had to kill each other? And most startling of all: none of this - _none of it_ \- would have come to pass, if only Tom had heard the entire prophecy. If he'd known that cursing him, marking him as his equal, would be his downfall…

"Harry?"

Harry's gaze snapped towards Sirius, who was looking very concerned.

"Are you alright?"

Harry nodded slowly. "I….I just...according to the prophecy one of us has to kill the other. If I want to live - I have to somehow kill Voldemort."

"Indeed," the Headmaster affirmed.

Harry's gaze flew over to the Headmaster. "But professor - surely you - I mean, divination is hardly reliable; prophecies don't always come true. There are plenty of records of that."

"Yes, there are, Harry - but there are no records of prophecies that did not come true when one or more of the parties involved chose to act on the prophecy, fulfilling part in the process."

Harry gaped. "But - but then, what you you're saying is -"

"By rashly acting on a prophecy without knowing its entirety, Voldemort orchestrated his own downfall."

"Snake-faced moron," Sirius muttered unhelpfully.

A moment of silence followed.

"Then, professor," Harry said quietly, "You also believe the prophecy? You think….that Voldemort will kill me, if I don't kill him first?"

"I do," the man said grimly.

The room lapsed into silence again.

"May I go?" Harry asked.

"Harry -" Sirius began.

"You may," Professor Dumbledore said gently.

And so he left.

* * *

That's it for now, folks. I hope you enjoyed what little is there - more is on the way! Hopefully within the next month, maybe two...I'll do my best.


	18. Food for Thought

**AN1:** I just wanted to thank everyone again for all the support I get. It helps so much, and it's so encouraging.

 **AN2:** Side note, I kinda hate this chapter. Hopefully you don't as well.

* * *

 **Chapter 17: Food for Thought**

Harry crossed his his arms, frowning slightly as he surveyed the painting in front of him. _The Persistence of Memory,_ it was called; a fascinating name for a painting, chosen by an artist with an equally fascinating name – Salvador Dali

There were times when he wished his parents had been a _little_ more creative in choosing a name. He wasn't sure why they hadn't been; Lily was a lovely, not obscure but not common either, name, and James was, at the very least, regal. They hadn't been deprived by their parents. _Harry_ (which could have been short for Harold or Henry or Harrison, but _wasn't_ ), on the other hand, was unextraordinary at best and plebeian at worst.

He let out a sigh, almost tempted to smack himself in the face. After a only a month of living in luxurious hotels, riding about in fancy cars, and eating disgustingly expensive food, he was already thinking like a pompous arse.

Damn Sirius, and his compulsive extravagance. Honestly, what had started as a 'prank' on his relatives beyond the veil had developed into a wasteful habit that showed no signs of going away.

But back to the painting; it was...interesting, very interesting. He couldn't exactly say it was _nice –_ he wouldn't want to hang it on his wall or anything – but it wasn't immediately clear why. Maybe it was the pseudo-realist quality, detailed and precise enough to quite baldly reflect real life, but just fictional enough to be jarringly displacing. Or maybe it was the underlying grim tone to it, belied by the almost cartoonish style. That aside, though, he was quite stuck on the question about how, precisely, this painting illustrated the persistence of memory. He had arrived at two possible conclusions; one was that the warped, melting clocks symbolized the memories themselves, and the painting was a statement about how memories become warped over time.

A little disconcerting, to say the least.

The other interpretation that crossed his mind was that memories somehow warp time itself...which suddenly brought him a _little_ too far into the whole psychology/neuroscience thing, so he took that as his cue to take a step back.

He took a look around him, eyes catching on the seemingly randomized collections of muggles lumbering around him - staring at paintings, either silently contemplative, or whispering furtively to their companion – before observing the walls of paintings themselves.

Art museums were...overwhelming, he decided, as he vacated the room, beginning to meander the halls in the general direction of the exit. He rather liked the art itself...but the vast...mush of congregated pieces, ranging drastically in medium and time period, was just a bit too much.

When he finally managed to navigate himself through the exit, he fished his diary out of his pocket and crossed off _visit art museum_ on his list of things to do in New York. He'd already completed _eat hot dog from a street vendor_ and _eat pizza_ with ample success; next up were _attend Broadway musical_ and _drink cocktail in a jazz bar (and listen to jazz)_. The first part of that last item was Theo's suggestion, and the second Hermione's. This task would no doubt prove a bit tricky, what with him being a good seven years under the legal drinking age, but he imagined he'd figure something out with the whole weak wandless _imperius_ curse thing he hadn't really practised since he was a kid.

There was a lot he hadn't practiced since he was a kid.

He glanced down at his watch, grimacing when he read _11:00_. Sirius would likely be awake, and rather unhappy about being left alone in their hotel suite, where he was paying thousands of US dollars to sleep on a couch (which he insisted was far more comfortable than his bed).

He wasn't sorry. They'd been to Spain, France, Germany, Italy, Russia, Israel, and Egypt already (travelling under false identities, of course), and they'd been together the whole time. Same hotel suites, same meals, same daily activities...

It was exhausting. Sirius was wonderful, he really was – but there really _was_ such a thing as too much of a good thing (a concept that completely escaped his godfather).

He knew that the man was just worried, and he didn't blame him, considering the circumstances.

It turned out that in June, following his escape from the Headmaster's office after learning the prophecy - a decidedly unproductive course of action; he'd merely fled to the Chamber of Secrets to pace and wonder what the prophecy meant, if it meant anything at all, while Tom remained unhelpfully silent (as he still was on the matter - in fact, the man had gone so far as to 'go into hibernation'; that is, in order to recover completely from the events of the last term, as well as plan their next course of action, he'd sunk so deeply into Harry's mind that Harry couldn't even sense his presence anymore) - Sirius and Dumbledore had continued to converse, regarding his summer plans. Professor Dumbledore, for vaguely specified reasons, had deemed it optimal that Harry and Sirius spend their summer holiday abroad, laying low (which Sirius was decidedly bad at) and looking over their shoulders whilst living, essentially, as muggles. Whether this was because of expected assassination attempts or the professor simply not wanting Harry to get involved in a tricky political situation back in Britain, he didn't know; all he knew was that he was both frustrated with Sirius and the Headmaster, and relieved. He was unbelievably tired and overwhelmed by the multiple projects, training regimes, and life-changing events that had occurred over the past year, and he would admit to feeling a little...trapped, back home. Unfortunately, he was starting to feel that suffocating, constrained feeling while constantly at Sirius's side.

He and Sirius had been specifically advised to stick together, but Harry felt quite safe on his own at this point in the muggle world (he could both manipulate and incinerate people with his mind, after all) and had a few layers of back up plans regarding any unfriendly magical interference in place; he had Draco spying on his father with some wards etched into his clothing, keyed to detect the utterance or spelling of the name _Harry_ (specifically _Harry_ with an explicit or implicit - Sanskrit runes were great that way - _Potter_ tacked on the end), and with such measures in place, he was quite certain that some alone time was well warranted -

Oh...oh dear.

His head turned from side to side rapidly, seeking any indication that he wasn't alone – that is, that there was another wizard present. There were people in suspiciously Victorian looking clothing across the street – no, those were just goths. And the men in suits three metres ahead? Probably lawyers. The man by the subway sign in the suspiciously long coat...

He had better find another station.

* * *

Remus looked very unimpressed. "So what you're telling me, is that you, Sirius, thought it was a _remotely decent_ idea to remain in New York, one of the only, and certainly the most popular, points of entry in all of Magical North America, for a vacation, and you, Harry, thought you didn't have to relieve him of his idiocy because you had a _fifteen year old_ with two years of Ancient Runes under his belt spying for you with runic wards? And under the _wrong name_ at that."

Harry opened his mouth to defend himself, but didn't get a word in.

"You two ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

To be fair, he hadn't been a Black for that long.

"Actually, no. Harry is _fourteen_ , he's allowed to make mistakes -"

 _Tell that to Tom,_ he muttered mentally.

"- in fact, this is barely a mistake – the fact that at least _he_ had a back up plan in place is commendable; you Sirius, on the other hand, have no excuses."

Sirius looked like he couldn't decide whether to be ashamed or extremely annoyed.

"I just – of all the – what do you think Lily would say?"

Sirius paled instantly. "It's not what she'd _say_ that I'd be concerned about."

"And rightfully so," Remus stated lightly, "I don't think it's a stretch to assume she wouldn't resort to the darkest of dark magics to teach you a lesson; you're an idiot if you think she didn't learn at least a thing or two from Severus."

Sirius grimaced.

"Anyhow," Reiko interrupted, striding into the room with a small stack of parchment in her hands, "If you boys are done with the useless ritual that is placing blame after the fact, I have customs papers and expedient international portkey applications you can fill out; if I can submit them within the next two hours we can leave for Sapporo tomorrow."

Remus smiled at her gratefully. "You're a life-saver, Reiko."

She grinned. "That's how you keep 'em, ya know? Make a man think he can't live without you and it's all over for him. Should I start making wedding arrangements? Let me say now that if the cake isn't chocolate I'll throw a fit."

Remus gaped. "R-Reiko -"

"I'm joking," she laughed, patting him on the head, "I wouldn't advise proposing for another six months at least. I'd hate to have to say no. Anyway, I need to go inform Hanako Oba-san that we'll be arriving tomorrow."

Meanwhile, Sirius was smirking at Remus as the woman left the room. "So. Things are going well, I take it?"

"Well, obviously not too well, if she needs another six months to decide," Harry put in.

"Ah, good point," Sirius agreed. "You're losing your touch, Remus."

Remus sighed, beyond exasperated at this point. "You two deserve each other."

"I resent that," Harry and Sirius said at once.

Remus sighed for what was likely to be the second of many times in the near future.

* * *

 _Dear Harry,_

 _It was very kind of you to reply to my letter so promptly; my mother taught me to appreciate efficiency and timeliness as some of the finest qualities an individual can possess._

 _I was both thrilled and amazed when I read your offer for financial support for my project - that you and your godfather would be willing to donate so much is a dream come true. It may actually prove to be the difference between the success and failure of my project._

 _Seeing that this is the case, I was also immensely grateful for your offer to help in any other way you can, and would be very much gratified if you could come speak at a gala I plan to hold in December of this year. I understand that you may be reluctant to talk about your past, but if you are willing, I believe that your story could touch the hearts of many potential supporters. Whether or not you consent, you are more than welcome to attend the gala, for which you will receive an invitation in September._

 _On that note, I thought you might be pleased to know (Hermione was thrilled), that it looks like the ban on muggleborns at Durmstrang will likely be lifted next year; most of the professors support this, and over the course of this summer, I have ascertained that most northern and central European magical governments are on board as well._

 _Business aside, I wanted to assure you that I am having an excellent holiday; much like yourself, I have been travelling; first to gather signatures for my petition regarding the admittance of muggleborns to Dusmstrang, and then for leisure. Mostly visiting family in Sweden and Germany - however, I did get the chance to take a portkey down to Peru via Brazil, and am currently enjoying the incredible culture, flora, and fauna of South America._

 _I hope that you are happy and safe, wherever you have found yourself (no need to apologize for the secrecy, I understand completely)._

 _Best wishes,_

 _Adina Christiansen_

Harry smiled at the letter from Adina he had received just before leaving Canada. Sirius had placed a spell on them to throw off any trackers, including owls. Luckily, thanks to Reiko, they had discovered the _International Wizarding Postal Service_ , which had centres all over the world where letters could be both sent and received. From what Harry could understand, the service worked very much like the notebooks he and Hermione had spelled last year - letters received at one centre would be autonomously copied onto parchment with a copy linked via _protean_ charm at every location. This was in turn copied autonomously onto regular parchment once a request was made at a centre, while the parchment pieces linked by the _protean_ charm were all destroyed.

Harry was beyond fascinated by the entire process, and had pestered the clerk at the first centre they visited for a good twenty minutes before Sirius dragged him out.

Anyway, though it was extremely expensive to use, it was worth it because he was able to keep in touch, at least somewhat, with his friends...and with Professor Dumbledore, who he'd sent a letter to just before leaving Egypt. He'd figured that if he wanted reliable information about Voldemort and the situation back home, the Headmaster would be the best source. Frankly, he was a little surprised that the man had time to reply, but he'd received a letter with Adina's right before he, Sirius, Remus, and Reiko left Vancouver.

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I am most gratified to know that your summer has proven eventful thus far – there is nothing more aging than a long and quiet vacation, after all. At the same time, I must repeat the warnings I relayed to you through Sirius at the end of term; do keep an eye peeled. Voldemort's followers have not entirely regrouped, but when it comes to pursuing you, I would not put anything past him._

Harry sighed. Yes, that sounded like Voldemort alright.

 _As for your query regarding the state of things back home, I must decline to answer. I do realize that information is scarce outside of Great Britain at this point, regarding Voldemort's return; suffice it to say that there is a very clear reason for this which you need not concern yourself with at this time. My stance remains the same; you suffered a traumatic ordeal last month, Harry, and coupled with the revelation I burdened you with, I believe that you are both needing and deserving of a period of rest. These tumultuous times will be waiting for you when you return, but there is nothing you can do now, and I fear that any interference from you might prove to be more detrimental than anything at this point. Knowledge of recent events will do nothing but ruin your vacation, I'm afraid; nothing so terrible has happened, merely...politics. And sometimes mere frustration can trouble one's state of mind more than concern ever could._

 _Enough of that, though.. Do enjoy wherever you've found yourself, and extend my well-wishes to Sirius and Remus._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Albus W.P.B. Dumbledore_

In other words, Fudge was still being an ignorant imbecile and nothing was getting done.

He sighed again. Professor Dumbledore was right; he _did_ need to relax, as there was nothing he could do - not until he got the go ahead from Tom, who was still 'in hibernation', which was starting to frighten Harry immensely. They'd smoothed over their relationship since June, but Harry was starting to feel more than a little resentful and frustrated and fearful again, knowing that Tom was off planning somewhere in the back of his mind, not sharing any of the details. It was all very vexing, and Harry was starting to fear that the whole thing was _getting to him_ ; you know, sinking under his skin and itching at his bones constantly.

He did need to relax, but how to do that…

Oh! Hot springs! There were hot springs near by, which Sirius claimed were the perfect temperature.

Excitedly, he rose from his seat and ran over to where a yukata and his swimming trunks were stashed away, along with a clean towel; grabbing his red backpack, he stuffed them inside and slung it over his shoulder, before darting out of his room, down the halway, and onto the quiet residential street Yukimura San's house was located on.

Reiko's extended family lived in a small village-y town not far from Sapporo, at the foot of what were either smallish mountains or very large hills, in fairly close proximity to the coast (not that anywhere in Japan was particularly far from the coast). It was...a strange place - very quiet, despite the local activities available, over-populated with elderly people, and most of all….boring. Due in part to Sirius and Remus being absent.

Sirius had somehow convinced Remus that they needed to have some 'adult fun', which, for some reason concerning his age, excluded him. So while Sirius, Remus, and Reiko were partying it up in Tokyo (they'd possibly hopped over to Hong Kong too - he wasn't quite sure where they were), he was...reading, in his bedroom, as usual.

It wasn't too bad, because it was, well, _usual_ , but the whole situation was more than a little...frustrating.

Sometimes he just couldn't wait until he was an _adult_.

Honestly, one would think that after everything he'd been through, even Remus would -

"Harry! Harry!"

Stopping in his tracks, he turned around, finding Reiko's cousin, Yuko, who was a year younger than him and also visiting from San Francisco (despite having been born near their current location), running up behind him.

"I almost missed you!" she said breathlessly.

He blinked. "I suppose so."

She giggled a little. "Where are you going?"

He shrugged, and resumed walking once she caught up. "The hot springs, assuming nothing else catches my eye."

He'd been excited at first - but it was a particularly hot day, and he found himself less keen on soaking in warm water now that he was out in the sun.

Yuko stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. "Have you been to the shrine yet?"

Harry frowned. "Shrine?"

Yuko nodded eagerly. "Near the onsen - I can show you!"

Harry's eyebrows rose. The girl must have been _really_ bored if she had nothing better to do than show him around - or maybe she was just trying to be polite. Feeling a bit bad about taking up her time, he nevertheless shrugged his shoulders and smiled gratefully. "If you don't mind, I would very much appreciate it."

And with that they set off down the quiet street, passing small houses as they went. Eventually they veered down an alleyway and on the other side found themselves on a much more vivacious street - leading to the centre of the town. That was not their final destination, however; apparently the shrine was a little out of the way, out in the forest somewhere, up a large staircase, which struck Harry as very odd. Why would someone put a place of worship in an inconvenient place? Wouldn't one want a shrine to be as accessible as possible?

Nevertheless, despite the heat, Harry found himself enjoying the trek - the layout of the town and the architecture of the buildings, though not wildly unusual, was just _off_ enough to feel completely alien. It was curious - he and Sirius had travelled through all of Europe and part of the Middle East and North America, and this was the first place he'd been to that he felt...completely unfamiliar with. He didn't know if it was the people, the buildings, the climate, or the geography, but it felt different...strange, almost. However, this feeling of strangeness did not at all prepare him for what he would find at the shrine.

He knew immediately which parking lot belonged to the shrine - as soon as he laid eyes on the staircase something shifted inside of him; he suddenly felt more present, more alive. It was at this point that he realized that Yuko had been chattering beside him all this time, explaining where they were and what was around them - previously, her soft voice had melted into their surroundings, her narrations feeling like they were almost inside his head; but now, her voice cut harshly through the air.

"And that over there is the -"

"Is that the way to the shrine?" he blurted out, before blushing at his rudeness.

Yuko smiled. "M-hmm."

"Huh," Harry said softly, feeling a little faint.

When they arrived at the foot of the staircase, their path was barred by a large structure - a red gate or arch of some kind.

"It's called a torii," Yuko explained, "They stand outside shrines to show us when we pass from the mundane world into the sacred one. It's coloured red to keep evil spirits away"

Harry nodded slowly, suddenly feeling unnerved. Something told him this wasn't a mere superstition - the red gate seemed to glower down at him ominously, almost warning him away.

"Are you coming?"

Yuko was already on the other side.

Taking a deep breath, Harry crossed under the arch - and immediately regretted it. For a moment he felt like he was falling, and the next he felt a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness. It was accompanied by the feeling he knew as malaise - you know, that feeling you get when you wake up too sick to go to school.

"Harry?"

"I…." His mouth was dry. "Yeah, I'm coming."

His legs were heavy when they began to ascend the stone steps, and they grew heavier as the pair climbed. The trees grew thicker and taller as their elevation increased, and seemed to arch over them, looming intrusively overhead. The air became thicker, more humid, and Harry could feel sweat forming on his brow and back; meanwhile, the feeling of nausea increased, and the dizziness grew even more intense.

"Are you ok?" Yuko asked once they were nearly halfway up.

"Huh?" Harry returned dazedly, wiping some sweat off his face.

"You look sick," Yuko said concernedly, reaching out to touch his forehead lightly. Her eyes widened. "You are sick! We should go back."

Harry shook his head. For some reason, he found himself really wanting to see that shrine. He had this strange feeling that it was...significant, somehow. "No...no...I can make it."

Trying to prove his point, he took one more step, but this proved to be a mistake - no sooner did he hoist himself up one more stair than he felt his stomach drop once again and darkness creep at the edge of his vision.

He sunk to his knees.

"I'm fi-"

He never finished his sentence.

* * *

"He's fine, apparently - probably just mild heat stroke," Reiko said just after the Japanese doctor took his leave.

"Thank Merlin," Remus muttered, leaning back against the wall, looking exhausted.

Sirius, who looked even more spent (honestly, what had they been up to?), still looked concerned. "Is he sure?"

Reiko nodded. "The symptoms match up, and it _was_ a really hot day."

Sirius nodded slowly. "Alright then, I'm knackered - you need anything before I go pass out, kiddo?"

Harry shook his head weakly. "I'm fine. Thank you, Sirius."

Once everyone left the room, he tried very hard to once again reach unconsciousness, but found himself in a consistent state of failure for the next two hours.

It was then that he finally decided he needed a cup of tea, and made his way into the kitchen, where he found Reiko sitting at the table with a stack of parchment and a quill.

"You're still awake," he commented

She jumped slightly, eyes sweeping over to where he stood. "Yeah, you too. Still feeling sick?"

Harry shook his head. "Just a little restless. Thought I could use a cup of tea."

Reiko smiled. "You're welcome to share mine, then - just grab a glass from the cupboard."

"Thank you," Harry said as he walked over to the cupboard where he'd seen Yukimura San fetch tea cups from. As he sat down, he couldn't help but ask, "What are you doing?"

Reiko sighed, smiling a little defeatedly as she poured him some tea from her tea pot. "Working."

"On your technology project?"

"That's right."

"You never did finish telling us about that."

Reiko chuckled. "Well, Sirius didn't seem too interested."

"I am."

She smiled. "Well, maybe I can bore you to sleep."

Considering all the enormous, dry texts he'd been forced to read, he really doubted it. "I really don't think so."

"Well, as I said, it's a comparative study; the main goal is to better understand the divide in technological development in the no-maj and wizarding worlds. Basically, we want to locate points of divergence, explore how much we have diverged, and the possible effects of this divergence."

Harry's lips parted. "Wow. That's a pretty massive project."

Reiko grinned a little. "My parents kept telling me pursuing computer science and sociology when I went to muggle university was a waste – it feels good to prove them wrong so spectacularly."

Harry grinned back. "So what have you found? Is there a point at which we started to really diverge from the muggles? Because there's a pretty obvious divide between how we function and use technology and how they do."

Reiko nodded. "Yep. If I had to pick a date...I'd say sometime in the early nineteenth century."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Why then?"

"It's about that time that gas lighting became more widely used in both the no-maj and wizarding worlds. They of course function differently, but the idea is roughly the same."

Harry nodded. "The actual lamps themselves basically identical, right?"

"Yeah, exactly. But it was after this point, that we continued to share technology to some degree, but usually only in the form of novelty items like your godfather's legendary motorbike."

Harry grinned a little.

"Some of the most crucial inventions in the muggle world - rockets, satellites, cellular phones, computers, video cameras - haven't been mirrored in the wizardng world in a meaningful way, which is both surprising and troubling."

Harry nodded slowly. "I agree...but, and excuse me for asking this, is that really grounds to create a whole research division? I mean, is there even anything we can do at this point? Muggles have developed more advanced technology in the last century than...I don't even know. With such a sparse population and such a small interest in this kind of research, do you really think it's even possible for us to catch up to them anymore?"

Reiko smiled, apparently pleased with the question. "This is exactly the focus of our research; our working goal is to identify specific 'pain points' and try to develop plans to eliminate these."

"And what do you think is the biggest 'pain point' we need to take care of?" Harry asked curiously.

"Well...there's some debate in the department, but I think the answer is really obvious."

"Is it really?"

"I think so."

Harry pursed his lips. "Then what is it?"

"Automation," Reiko said resolutely.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Automation?"

"The muggle population is about ten thousand times larger than ours, and they have computers and machines at their disposal to create and analyze things."

"We can automate things too," Harry pointed out.

"Simple things. Unimportant things. We charm dishes to do themselves or newspapers to print themselves."

"There's a lot of advanced spell work that does more than that," Harry objected, "A lot of runic rituals can automate spell casting too, and there are spells like the _gemino_ curse that can be used to imitate….what was that term again? Oh, right - recursion."

"True, and those are _awesome_ , to say the least, but nobody really uses them, not to their full potential. Even advanced listening charms have a limited radius and require someone to actually do the _listening,_ because it's very difficult to store large volumes of audio data in an easily archivable and accessible way, and most locating spells are illegal, and easily avoided if you know what you're doing."

"There's lot's more out there than that."

"Yes, but, it's just...not enough. We could be leveraging no-maj technology and concepts; we could be using CCTV for surveillance, we could be using sorting algorithms to efficiently organize and store information; we could use artifacts based on microchip technology to store massive amounts of information in one place in an easily accessible way."

"I'm pretty sure enough creative spell work could do all those things."

Reiko nodded. "I completely agree. The problem is that creative spellwork is only accessible to those capable of casting it; and analyzing and organizing massive amounts of information and scaling these operations, for instance, is simply not feasible for most witches and wizards. We're talking about using thousands of highly complex spells on a daily basis which can only be cast by a small pool of people, most of whom are academics, and have no interest in working with the Ministry. But that's the whole point of technology; it's to make complex processes accessible to those who can't perform the complex processes themselves."

Harry nodded slowly. "That's a...really good point."

Reiko grinned elatedly. "Just think of how many lives could have been saved, in your last war, through better communication and organization; think of how no-maj ideas like trap-door encryption and digital signatures could have prevented the spread of false information, and how advanced surveillance could have weeded out moles and spies, how more complex alert systems could have prevented logistical and strategic mistakes."

Harry pursed his lips. "Yeah, that's great in theory, but it would have been a disaster if Voldemort got his hands on technology like that."

Reiko smirked. "Voldemort? Using no-maj technology? Even if he saw the value in it, I doubt his pureblood sycophants would."

"Another good point," Harry conceded.

"And, well, this is a problem we have to address every time we get better at anything; the scale is just different. Every time we make it easier to control or harm someone, we're risking our enemies gaining the same capabilities. That's unavoidable. But does that mean we impede progress?"

"No," Harry said, "Of course not."

"Exactly. Not to mention...with no-maj recording equipment becoming more advanced, it will be harder and harder for us to remain concealed. Right now, if a no-maj photographs magic being performed, we just need to track down the film. But what if they leveraged their new 'internet' technology to be able to instantly post this picture on a website that the entire world could see?"

Harry paled. "It's over."

Reiko shrugged. "Not necessarily. We could try to ensure that it's laughed off as a hoax."

"That's hardly foolproof."

Reiko nodded. "Exactly. Technological development is always an arms race – the problem is that even if we don't realize it, we're already in it. And we're losing."

"Yeah...we sure are," Harry said dejectedly, before perking up a little. "An arms race...I do like that though. It's very...militant. I think it describes the situation in much blunter terms than most are willing to express."

Reiko's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

Harry sighed. "It never ceases to amaze me how unwilling wizards and witches are to accept that the muggle world could completely end ours in a matter of days, if they wanted to. It's refreshing to talk to someone who actually recognizes the problem."

Meanwhile, Reiko was looking at him closely. "You don't like muggles much, do you?"

Harry started.

"I'm not judging," Reiko put in quickly, "It's just an observation."

Harry shrugged weakly. "I...I don't hate them, and I don't think they're all bad...I just...tend to see the worst in them I guess. I don't try to - I just…"

Reiko was staring at him with something he thought resembled sympathy.

They both stared at each other in silence.

"Hey, you know how the doctor said I had heat stroke?" Harry said suddenly, eager to change the subject.

"...yeah?"

"I...well, what if it wasn't?"

"What do you mean?" Reiko asked slowly.

"I mean that - when I passed out, we were on our way to a shrine. And I think - maybe - it wasn't the weather that was making me sick...it was the _place_. I felt fine until we crossed under that gate, the...torrii, I think -"

Reiko nodded.

"- and the higher we climbed the worse I felt. I just...I feel like there was something about that place that was making me ill."

Reiko nodded slowly. "Well...it's not unheard of. You're definitely not the first person to feel sick in proximity to a shinto shrine - you're the first person I've heard of who's fainted, though."

Harry frowned. "But why? They're just like churches, aren't they? Churches don't make people sick."

Reiko raised an eyebrow. "Churches? They're _nothing_ like churches."

Harry's frown deepened. "How so?"

Reiko looked at him curiously. "Yuko didn't explain?"

"We didn't quite get that far."

"I see. Well, churches are...they're dead, in a way - in more ways than one, in fact.. The patrons worship a dead man and some of them even house the bodies of the dead. There's no magic in Christianity."

Harry nodded. There _was_ a kind of magic to it - but nothing like the magic he knew.

"Shintoism isn't like that. Shintoism is a religion of living gods and living spirits - and our shrines are _actively_ pure."

"Ok, so…"

"So when a witch or wizard with a lot of magic is, say, grieving for a family member or angry about a recent divorce, sometimes - and this is all hearsay - evil spirits will latch onto their magic, and they'll make the witch or wizard ill when they try to visit a holy place, like a shrine."

Harry stared at her in disbelief. "You think I have evil spirits following me around?"

Reiko shrugged. "You're the one who thought it wasn't heat stroke."

"Yeah, but - evil spirits? Do you really believe that?"

Reiko was silent for a moment. "I believe...that the world is full of things that we don't understand, and that we try to encapsulate them in our names, and stories, and traditions, but always fail to capture their full essence. I don't know if there are spirits are out there, or if good and evil are more than human speculation, but I do know that there is powerful magic out there that no one seems to understand - we live in a world of mysteries and anomalies and things that are greater than us. Don't you think so?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably, feeling both gleefully excited and a little afraid, unwilling to betray either sentiment. "Yeah, yeah I do."

Technology, automation, gods, and spirits - so much more to think about. Just what he needed.

* * *

That's it for now, folks. Sorry this one's a bit shorter. The next one is also shaping up to be pretty short (and will be published soon), but the one after will hopefully be the usual length.


	19. Hermione Granger (Part 3)

**AN:** Yes, yes, I know, get on with the plot already. And that's fair; this chapter is more of an interlude than anything - a writing exercise in a way, just to kind of get thing moving along. So indulge me; after all, this HG POV chapter actually contains some really relevant events. Kind of. Probably. *This is the point where the writer ducks their head and reallizes they have lost focus again and will probably take a while to release the next chapter. But hopefully not too long.

* * *

 **Chapter 18: Hermione Granger (Part 3)**

"So, how does it feel to be home?" she asked cautiously.

She'd been half ecstatic and half relieved – ecstatic because she would finally get to see her best friend again, and relieved because she could finally discern how Harry was doing...how he was really doing, that is. They'd exchanged notes throughout the summer, of course, but Harry's updates were very much like the face he habitually wore in front of the rest of the world – pristine, polite, and polished. It was curious that given even the small difference in time between speaking and writing a sentence, Harry's entire demeanour would default to what she now recognized as little more than a mask.

Even then, they'd been few and far between. The notebook conversations, that is. Harry had relayed before his departure overseas that he was supposed to remain 'off the magical grid', and maintain as little contact with the wizarding world as possible. Thus, besides a few notes about shared research projects and the Order, she hadn't heard from him much at all. It occurred to her a few times that he might just need space, after the ordeal with Voldemort – Harry was like that, after all; often electing to take refuge in himself when finding himself weak or wounded. She didn't like it, but after all this time, she had learned to accept it. It was for that reason that she had had some doubt whether or not he had actually cut off all contact with the wizarding world; perhaps it was his friends in particular that he had cut contact with.

Now, however, she had her doubts about that theory; Harry, though trying very hard to appear amiable, was in a foul mood when he arrived at her house on August the twenty-first. Seeing as he had arrived back in Britain only yesterday, there were only a few things that could have dampened his mood so severely. Something that had happened on his vacation, Sirius, or...the _state of things_. The first two were distinct possibilities, but...well, if Harry truly had cut contact with the wizarding world in Britain, he would have been in for a nasty shock when he got back.

"It's...bittersweet," he said with feigned lightness.

She decided to go along with it for the time being. "Oh? I suppose the sweet part thus far would be seeing me, which makes me wonder what could be so bitter as to compete."

He straight up scowled, then, much to her surprise. Even among friends he rarely revealed himself as little more than slightly annoyed. "Literally everything else," he said sourly, "Two months – I was gone for two months. How could so much wrong in two months? And why didn't you _tell me?_ "

Ah, so her instinct had been correct.

The summer had begun with a shocking announcement by Albus Dumbledore, formally endorsed by Harry Potter (Black) – that Lord Voldemort had returned, and was now at large. This was promptly followed by a smear campaign directed at both Harry and Professor Dumbledore, and the contents of the press over the last few months...well, they were far from flattering.

And that was a problem for Harry. One thing she had learned about her friend over the years was that despite his laid-back demeanour, he really did care about his reputation a great deal. She didn't think it was a self-esteem problem – although, knowing her friend, no one would know if he had one – but rather a side effect of his future ambitions as a teacher or politician – two positions that required perceived integrity and respect in order to succeed.

Yes, this was likely a large setback in Harry's eyes – unfortunately, she could give him little more than sympathy.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said quietly, "To be honest I thought you knew, and wouldn't want to talk about it."

He sighed. "Yes, I figured. Don't mind me, I'm just...grumpy," Harry said, leaning back in his seat, "Anyway, read anything interesting lately?"

She smiled slightly, honestly pleased with the deflection. The _Daily Prophet's_ treatment of the whole Voldemort thing infuriated her as well, and she was all out of angry rants at this point. "I have, actually."

Harry's eyebrows rose, no doubt surprised that she hadn't said more. "Care to share?"

She hesitated for a moment. She _had_ been reading some _very_ interesting things of late – but she wasn't sure if the subject matter would morbidly fascinate her friend or discourage him further. It was worth a try, she supposed. "Are you...familiar with the concept of a carrying capacity?"

Harry frowned. "It sounds familiar...I think I might have read it...in a...calculus textbook?"

She nodded. "The carrying capacity of a biological population is like a limit, a plateau it will eventually reach. The idea is that in a given environment, a population can only sustain so much growth – eventually, resources will begin to run out, resulting in scarcity and ultimately population decline. This process of growth and decline should theoretically stabilize at the carrying capacity."

"I didn't know you had an interest in biology, Hermione."

"I don't, not really. But a friend of my mother's was visiting from the United States this summer – Laura Marshall. She's a biologist and an environmental activist, and she had some really...concerning opinions, which I've come to share."

Harry's eyebrows rose, and she could tell he was intrigued. Good – at least she'd managed to take his mind off current events in the wizarding world.

"In a simple, carefully controlled environment like a fish hatchery, it's easy to see how carrying capacity works; clearly, the amount of food available and the size of the tank will curb how much the population is allowed to grow, but with humans, it's a bit more complicated. You see, since the middle ages, the human population has been increasing, but the rate of growth really shot up in the last century. There are a few reasons for this."

"Technology," Harry suggested immediately.

"Exactly. Improvements in sanitation and healthcare increased life expectancy and decreased infant mortality rates drastically, and the availability of food and water has helped population growth along as well. My understanding is that the population sat somewhere under 250 million for a long time, but by the early 1800s, it was around 1 billion. It's around 6 billion now."

"Really?" Harry said, fascinated.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, and every year around 120 million people are born."

"So in a hundred years..."

"Assuming a growth rate of about 60 million, 11 or 12 billion, probably. You and I might see populations of 14 or 15 billion. Maybe even more."

"If I manage to stay alive that long," Harry said wryly.

She scowled at him. "Don't talk like that."

He shrugged. "My prospects don't seem as good now as they did 6 months ago."

She grimaced.

"Anyway, go on."

She cleared her throat. "As I was saying, the human population is increasing rapidly, which is a nice thought, but it really isn't a good thing -"

"What's the carrying capacity of the human species?"

"Exactly. No one knows. But scientists estimate between 4 and 16 billion."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "So we might already be over it."

She nodded.

Harry frowned. "How would you even get an estimate like that?"

"Well, there are a few factors. For one thing, there's only so much livable space on our planet – two thirds of it are water, and a good portion of the rest is tundra and desert and mountains. So we can only occupy so much space – but we can farm even less of it. Also, even though over two thirds of the planet is water, most of that water is saltwater, so we can't drink it. Moreover, muggles require fuel – oil, coal, gas – to keep themselves warm and fed, and there's only so much of that as well...which contributes to another huge problem."

"Which is...?"

"Pollution. As you probably know, oxygen makes up only a small portion of the earth's atmosphere. Most of it's nitrogen. But there are a lot of other gasses that make up the atmosphere – like carbon dioxide and methane. Lots of these gasses are harmless, but lots of others aren't, and the problem with burning fuel like oil and coal is that it releases harmful gasses into the atmosphere."

"What do you mean by harmful?"

"Well, some of them are downright toxic."

Harry grimaced.

"Burning coal is basically like releasing poison into the air. But even gasses that aren't particularly dangerous to breathe in can cause damage too – like greenhouse gasses. Those are gasses that trap radiation from the sun close to earth's surface and help to heat the planet. We need these, because they keep our atmosphere at a livable temperature, but at this point the planet is beginning to warm up too much, and we're beginning to experience something called global warming."

"Which is...?"

"The earth's temperature is getting warmer. Which, again, seems nice at first, but it's really potentially disastrous for all sorts of reasons. Icebergs melt so sea levels rise, certain plant and animal habitats are destroyed..."

"So basically," Harry interrupted, "The muggles are killing our planet."

She scowled. " _No._ We're _all_ contributing to the deterioration of our planet. Muggles just require more resources than we do to survive. Just being _alive_ and _breathing_ releases literally tonnes of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. But that's not the point."

"There was a point to all that?"

"Of course there was! The point is that we're destroying our planet, and we need to do something about it! Humanity is quickly using up all the space and resources available to us, stealing from everyone else – we've hunted many other species to extinction, and we've taken over the habitats of even more! And if that weren't enough, we're polluting our oceans and poisoning our atmosphere! Just by _existing_ we cause our planet harm, and the more of us there are, the more harm is done. We're destroying the world! When we run out of food and water, everyone who's not starving will be fighting everyone else for what's left, and if that doesn't kill us in time, we'll all suffocate to death in the end!"

"Well, Hermione, I can confidently say that I'm at least ten times more depressed now than I was when I got here."

"That's not the point either!" she exclaimed shrilly. "We need to do something, Harry! If we don't start to see war, famine, and disaster as a result of overpopulation in our lifetimes, our children certainly will!"

"Are you trying to convince me to help you commit mass genocide, Hermione?" Harry asked blankly.

"No!" she nearly shrieked. "Why would you even think that?"

"Well, it's the most obvious solution, isn't it? Remove the population, and you remove the problem. I don't know what can be done about the oceans, but I'm guessing that these gasses in the atmosphere dissipate over time, and without so many people around, resources like animals and plants will replenish themselves. Theoretically, wouldn't cutting down the population by a few billion be the best option?"

She gaped at him. "You're honestly talking about killing billions of people."

Harry shrugged. "Not really. I don't know if I'd have the stomach for that. I am curious to know what exactly you think we can do about it, though."

"We could help with resources! We have magic, Harry – we can provide muggles with healthy plants and clean water for one thing."

Harry stared at her for a moment, before closing his eyes and shaking his head. "There are so few of us, Hermione. There are what, maybe 5000 witches and wizards in WIzarding Britain? I believe that's what the last census said. There are a little less than 60 million people in the UK, right? So we have about 1 percent of the world's population here. Assuming the population of witches and wizards is about uniform throughout the world, that means there are half a million of us in total...as opposed to around 6 billion muggles. What exactly do you think we can do? And even supposing we _could_ do a significant amount of good, there's no way we could do that much while remaining hidden."

"Then maybe this is a good reason to start cooperating with the muggles -"

"I've already told you why that wouldn't work -"

"But if we were helping them -"

"Then we'd still be able to control their minds and wipe their memories and kill them with two words! It would be a disaster. You _know_ this -"

"Well then what would you suggest!?"

"I -" Harry paused. "Good question." He eyed her curiously. "You're genuinely quite concerned about this, aren't you?"

"Of course! This is the fate of our planet, we're talking about," she said indignantly.

He nodded thoughtfully. "You're quite determined to do something about this."

"I am."

He leaned forward in his seat. "You know, everyone dies eventually."

She gasped, barely believing what she was hearing. "That doesn't mean we should let everyone just -"

"No, you misunderstand. What I mean is, the problem here is that even though a certain number of people die every year, even more people are born, so the population keeps growing. But if, for a certain period of time, significantly fewer people were born every year, the population would decrease naturally – no genocide needed."

Her eyes widened.

"How many people do you suppose die every year?"

"Well," she mused, "I think I heard once that 6000 people die every hour...so that's 144,000 a day...let's round to 140,000...so that's...around 50 million a year."

Harry nodded. "So say only...30 or 40 million people were born every year."

"Then in 100 years we decrease the population by at least 1 billion! Maybe even 2!"

"Exactly. So, in theory, all we need to do is prevent the births of 100 million people every year for a hundred years...or more."

"Er..."

"Yeah."

The were both silent.

"You know," Harry said thoughtfully, "There are contraceptive potions. Potions that prevent women from getting pregnant...maybe there are potions that...permanently sterilize people. And if there are...suppose that, say, 600 million people were dosed with such a potion...maybe 600 million people from the poorest countries in the world or something..."

"Harry!" she hissed, "You're talking about eugenics!"

He rolled his eyes, and she bristled slightly. "It's nothing to do with race. The fact is that some people are happier and healthier than other people, and it so happens that wealthier countries like the UK, the US, Germany, France, Japan, et cetera, happen to have higher populations of these sorts of people. On second thought, Japan has a rather high suicide rate, doesn't it? "

"And these also happen to be the people who use the most resources – by far!"

"Fair point. So maybe evenly distributing it would be better...it's only fair, I guess..."

"Harry!" she whispered frantically, looking her empty dining room to make sure her parents weren't in the vicinity, "You can't honestly be talking about sterilizing 10 percent of the human population!"

He shrugged. "It's a good idea, isn't it? Guaranteed population decrease without killing a single person. Actually, that's a _really_ good idea...it's actually quite clever..."

"Harry, you can't sterilize half a billion people!"

"Well obviously _I_ can't – I'm not much of a potion brewer. Maybe Draco could one day, though."

"Harry! No one _should –_ no one morally _can –_ sterilize half a billion people!"

"Why not?"

"People have a right to choose to have children!"

"They can still have children. There are plenty of orphans in the world."

"Harry!"

"What?"

"That's _so_ wrong!"

"Why?"

She sputtered. "That's obvious, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't. I honestly don't get it, Hermione. You say the planet's dying, you say we're killing it. You say we need to do something about it. We've already concluded that population decrease is probably the only solution, and it's not like you can go around convincing hundreds of millions of people to be abstinent. So what if ten percent of the human population can't have kids. At least everyone else's kids have a planet to live on."

"But...but..."

"I don't know about you, but I believe that failing to save someone who is in your power to save is tantamount to killing them. That's what I believe. So what would you rather do? Prevent ten percent of a species from having children, or kill off the whole thing? It's the trolley problem all over again – I've found my solution. What's yours?"

She stared at him, speechless. He was looking at her, eyes wide and earnest, face genuine and guileless, free of any cruelty or menace. He was serious. He was completely serious.

"So what," she said weakly, "You think the best way to save the planet is to dose 600 million people with a sterilization potion?"

"Yeah...probably by putting it in some sort of packaged food or drink item would be best. The obvious choice would be the waterways, but that's harder to control and we share those with the muggles, so -"

"Oh my _god_ – you _are_ talking about eugenics! You only want to sterilize muggles!"

He only raised an eyebrow, though, apparently unaffected by her accusation. "Well obviously."

She bristled.

"We already have a small population growth rate, and there are way more of them -"

"Oh my _god -"_

He scowled at her. "If we were to include the wizarding population in a randomly selected 10 percent, we'd risk ending our existence altogether. That's not acceptable. You know this."

She could only gape at him. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Her friend, her best friend, was actually advocating the partial sterilization of a group of people without a certain genetic trait. He genuinely thought it was the right thing to do.

"Have I ever told you, Harry...that sometimes you scare me?"

For a moment, his face went completely blank – until a grimace twisted his lips and his eyes darkened. It was a look of deep hurt. "Is that because I shock you, or because you know I'm right?"

She didn't respond, because she honestly didn't know.

By the end of the afternoon, she had reluctantly agreed to conduct research on the biological and economic consequences of sterilizing ten percent of the muggle population. She told herself it was mere curiosity, that in the end, she'd conclude that it was unfeasible, or wrong, or _something,_ and that Harry, being the reasonable person he was, would agree. She honestly didn't know.

Sometimes she wondered what her eleven year old self - a studious, obedient little girl with a strong moral compass - would think of her now, now that she was a witch who had, if she was really honest with herself, given her loyalty and love to a powerful dark wizard who was a supporter of negative eugenics. Did that make her a bad person? She honestly didn't know…

Wait. No.

Since when did she give up? SInce when did she disregard her beliefs for someone else's?

It occurred to her, moments after Harry left, that her fear didn't stem from shock or the validity of Harry's beliefs - it came from her fear of losing him. Harry Potter - now Black - was her closest friend, and she cared about him so deeply that words could not express her feelings adequately. But her friend was heading down a path that she...didn't want to see him go down. A path she didn't know if she could follow.

Harry was becoming more adept at casting dark magic with every passing year - she'd seen him cast an unforgivable with almost no effort, and she had this strange and terrible feeling that he'd cast the other two as well.

(She wasn't, however, especially worried about this, as Harry had shown both interest and talent in light magic as well).

He could no longer hide his mood swings - the events of the past year had proven that with ample evidence. And now this…

She had been wrong, in first year, when she thought being in Slytherin was the source of Harry's disdain towards muggles - because Harry was nothing like those pureblood sycophants who saw muggles as subhuman and muggleborns as worthless and dirty...he was far, far worse off.

Harry didn't hate all muggles on principle (sure, he'd once been uncomfortable around them, but she firmly believed that could be chalked up to the abuse he'd suffered throughout his childhood), and he cared deeply about muggleborns and held a great deal of sympathy for the hardships they faced; the discussions between Harry, Adina, and herself had proven this. He didn't desire genocide or war - he had a temper, sure, but he was never one to seek out conflict. No, Harry simply _didn't care_ about muggles. In his mind, muggles were irrelevant at best and an obstacle at worst. And that was far worse than the views of someone like Malfoy or Zabini - because Malfoy and Zabini could be proven wrong. Easily. But Harry...he wasn't actually _wrong._ He just had a different value system. He wasn't misinformed - he knew what muggles were capable of first hand, having been both abused by them and surprisingly well educated in muggle history, and had decided to judge them on the qualities that would lead him to devalue them.

If she cared enough about Malfoy to try to actively redeem him, she would simply have to present evidence and convince the ignorant boy of its validity. But Harry...she would have to restructure his entire value system to change his mind. She'd have to help him construct moral intuitions that had somehow been erased after years of ascribing to his corrupt value system.

It was an incredibly daunting task...but what else could she do?

She would need a plan; Harry wouldn't respond to therapy or psychological mumbo-jumbo - he was too self-aware, too rational and too stubborn for that. No, she would need to introduce him to new _ideas_ , because Harry loved ideas.

It was time for Hermione Granger to brush up on her philosophy.

* * *

So who will win? Who will convince the other to change their value system? Harry or Hermione? Stay tuned to find out!

Also, thanks for reading - I'll try to have the next chapter (a real one) out within the month :)


	20. Metamagical Structures

**AN1:** Well, as I thought, I got some _very_ interesting reviews for last chapter - it made me really happy to read all the opinions that my readers have on Hermione's and Harry's respective views. Thanks for all the thoughtful responses!

 **AN2:** An admittedly short-ish and choppy chapter - I'm sorry about that, by the way. I just wanted to get back into things as quickly as I could, seeing as my last two updates since the hiatus have been rather filler-ish. This is a bit better - a transition chapter, which should give you a vague idea of where the plot is going for this year.

 **AN3:** Oh, and before anyone asks, Tom will be back soon ;)

 **AN4:** I'm really, really sorry my posting has been so slow...I've been compiling PhD applications and scoring a film while simultaneously being depressed. And, y'know, working. Not to mention I moved...again. But yeah, I'll try to speed it up!

* * *

 **Chapter 19: Metamagical Structures**

Harry stared intently at the text propped up on the pillow in front of him, eyes straining almost painfully in the dim light. He and Sirius had been duelling all day, and he barely had enough energy to cast a decent _lumos_ at this point.

 _Section IV: Forced Meta-Magical Structures_

 _Recall the three layers of reality - the external, the conscious, and the unconscious, corresponding to the noumena, the phenomena, and the unknowable respectively. Also recall the interpretation of language as an intra-magical forced structure._

 _In this section we consider extensions of language and magical structures; specifically, we abstract them. Our first step will be to outline the abstraction process; we use lattice theory to perform a complex formal concept analysis on unspecified event variables (if the reader did not grasp Chapter VII, Section X on abstract algebra, they are encouraged to return, as this knowledge is crucial to understanding the remainder of this chapter). Our next step will be to propose a framework for analysing the trinitarian model (See Chapter V) via our formal concept analysis. Finally, we explore a case study; specifically, we analyse the role of the three layers of reality in conjunction with their objects in the development of what Muggle psychologists have come to refer to as 'Stockholm Syndrome'._

 _Finally._ Finally a case study. Finally something concrete.

After a very long three hundred and twenty-one pages, Harry was finally starting to understand why Professor Dumbledore lent him _Logos and Pathos_. Kind of. He had a feeling that _Chapter XXVI: The Role of the Agent_ would have what he was looking for; at first, any semblance of usefulness had seemed a distant prospect...but now, it was ever so quickly approaching as he drew near to the close of chapter twenty.

He sighed; he'd picked up _Logos and Pathos_ again in the hopes that it would help lull him to sleep - the first fifteen chapters had been extremely theoretical, difficult to understand, and a little, well, dull. He should have known better - things had started to pick up in the last few chapters, and Professor Dumbledore's reading recommendation was quickly becoming unsuitable as bedtime reading material.

The book had started off as mostly a linguistics text, then a metaphysics text, then an abstract mathematics text, then a magical theory text, and it was starting to finally combine the four disciplines to discuss the structure of the universe, and of its different facets - namely, external reality, the reality we experience, and the reality we don't experience, despite it happening inside of us. That's why he was looking forward to Chapter 26 - he'd bet more than a few galleons that that was the point at which he would begin to understand the role of _logos_ \- expression, implied to be linguistic - and _pathos_ \- experience - in organizing the parts of the mind that could not be controlled. There had already been some hints as to how this might be possible - namely, the theory that organization was a relative quality…

But now he was jumping down a rabbit hole, and if he did that, he _definitely_ wouldn't get to sleep.

It was a pity, that all the projects he was currently working on were all so engaging. He'd finished his summer assignments weeks ago, and his spell-deconstruction project with Hermione required a great deal of active brain-storming. Moreover, his new fascination with pagan religions was hardly dull on any level; it turned out that the Black library was full of pagan mythologies and rituals, and trying to discern grains of truth from those fanciful tomes required his full attention - well, maybe they didn't require it, but they certainly attracted it. _Magicks of the Sowle_ could get a bit dull from time to time, but he'd been forbidden from continuing that research until Tom's return (which was due any day, now), just in case he skipped something crucial, which apparently he was wont to do.

He laid back in his bed. What to do...what to do…

 _Well,_ said a voice in his head that sounded conspicuously (and disappointingly) like him, _Why don't we actually address the root of the problem, for a change._

That...was a potentially excellent idea...however, its excellence depended entirely on being able to dislodge this _root of the problem_ from his life.

In this case, he knew what was causing his insomnia: it was the thought of leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow and facing a hostile world - a world even more untrustworthy than that he'd previously known, filled with people who would sooner call him a liar than believe that Voldemort had returned.

Despite what Tom said about them having enemies everywhere, Harry rarely had reason to feel genuinely threatened, because there were few, if any people who actively disliked him (until recently, apparently). Even the fake Alastor Moody had seemed to get on well with him, and he actually _was_ an enemy.

He knew what Tom would say when he woke up - that there was an upside to all this. That it was a lesson. That there truly were enemies hiding everywhere, and that the world _was_ divided into enemies and potential enemies. But Harry wasn't sure he wanted to learn this lesson; he didn't want to think on it at all, really - he'd rather think about literally anything else, which was distracting in its own right...hence the insomnia.

He glanced over at the prefect's badge that he had received earlier that month, which sat limply on his desk. Would that help at all? No, that would probably make things worse. The only people who appreciated prefects were teachers and other prefects.

He sighed again. This wasn't going to be resolved by his fretting. It just wasn't. If only there was something incredibly dull he could do….

Oh! His mother's notes! He had accidentally forgotten them at Grimmauld Place over the summer months, and hadn't had a chance to finish decoding them.

Relieved, he reached under his bed and withdrew a large stack of papers, flipping through them until he found an untranslated page.

"Another simple substitution cipher? Come on, mum."

He sighed, suddenly discouraged, and glanced at what had been done so far. They were about half-translated, with 50 pages decoded and a stack about just as high left, and the last 15 pages decoded were solely Theo's work - the other boy, bless his soul, had worked tirelessly whilst he slept in the Hospital Wing on decrypting his mother's work for him - so he hadn't read them yet. Suddenly struck by an irresistible urge - he really couldn't help himself - he sifted through the parchment until he came to the last page he'd actually read.

The first twenty or so pages of the research had been just that - searching through other people's work and documenting it. On the bright side, this meant that Harry had been given access to summaries of large amounts of light magic texts...which on the not-so-bright side gave him no instructions on how to perform the spells introduced. While this was illuminating on some level, it was a little, well, boring, but luckily (or maybe not, for he still needed to fall asleep), a direction in the research was becoming clear. What his mother seemed to have settled on studying, at this point, was this 'theory of inverses' she'd addressed in her letter to Remus.

As he began to scan the pages he hadn't read yet, he grew more and more excited. Not at the material exactly, but at the general direction the writing was taking.

At this point the research notes had morphed into a diary of sorts, with his mother musing over which spell she wanted to focus on, cycling through abstract of case study after case study. Slowly the spells were becoming darker and darker - and more recognizable from Tom's arsenal - until, on page 43, she settled on one candidate, which she felt could " _...prove incremental to other projects on my plate and serve as a turning point in the war…"_ \- Voldemort's signature spell, _Avada Kedavra._

Maybe he just...wouldn't sleep tonight.

* * *

"So what's the headline today?" Harry queried idly through a yawn.

Sirius looked up from the newspaper he was skimming through while somehow managing to simultaneously devour his meal voraciously. "Something about Quidditch…"

"Hmm."

"But you _are_ mentioned on page 2: 'A tale worthy of Harry Potter' - can't even get the name right, bloody idiots - in reference to a suspect's alibi in a case regarding the theft of a ring, a clock, and a chandelier."

"So my words are representative of a petty thief's lies, now."

"Seems like it."

Harry shrugged. "That's...insulting but relatively benign."

"Oh, wait, here on page 4 - 'the apprehended suspect was hysterically delusional, DMLE representatives say...although it should be pointed out that no oddly shaped scar was present on his person'."

Harry groaned. "I've never _not_ wanted to go to Hogwarts before," he said sulkily as he poked the omelette on his plate with a fork. It was 9:24 on September first, and Harry and Sirius were eating a light breakfast before Harry's departure, which was to be a half hour earlier than usual, due to a work engagement Sirius hadn't been able to get out of.

Sirius looked up again. "What? You don't want to go?"

Harry shrugged. "I want to go to classes and see my friends...I'm just not keen on attending a school where most of the other students think I'm a psychotic liar."

Sirius snorted. "No one thinks you're a psychotic liar, kiddo - they think you're narcissistic attention-whore."

Harry groaned again. "That's _worse_."

"There's nothing wrong with being an attention-whore," Sirius said defensively.

"Speak for yourself."

"I am."

Harry sighed.

"Look, if you really don't want to go -"

"I do," Harry interjected defeatedly, "I do...it's just...it's all so absurd. _Voldemort's back_ and the press has nothing better to do than pick on an elderly professor and a fifteen-year old."

"Well, the wizarding world has always welcomed the absurd," Sirius said with attempted humour.

Harry glanced at him, annoyed. "Absurd was a misnomer. I meant preposterous. The world is crumbling around us; peace is slipping away from us; control is being pulled out from under us; and no one is doing anything."

"Except us," Sirius pointed out.

Harry coughed out a laugh at that. "Us? Yeah, maybe you can take a few dark wizards off the streets before Voldemort can recruit them, but me? There's nothing I can do but watch this disaster take shape."

It was true - Tom was _still_ in 'hibernation', and the situation in Britain was already too bad for him and his silver tongue to run damage control. He felt trapped - trapped in a lie that the world had spun for him without his input or permission.

"I feel so...useless," he admitted.

Meanwhile, Sirius was staring at him incredulously. "Useless? Nothing you can do? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Harry started.

"You of all people should know that there's never 'nothing you can do'."

"Should I now."

"You bloody well should. You aren't going to sit there, twiddling your thumbs and letting those ignorant bastards shout abuse at you, and you know it."

"Then what am I going to do, Sirius?" Harry said tiredly.

Sirius looked at him as though he was an idiot. "You're going to learn, and train, and convince the entire world it's wrong, because that's what you do best, kiddo, and don't you forget it."

Harry stared at his godfather's slightly flushed face and bright eyes - shining with something resembling both exasperation and concern. The man truly cared - probably more than anyone else ever had. He smiled slightly, unable to help himself. "Ok...I won't."

"That's the spirit. I'll do what I can from my end and you do what you can from yours." Here, Sirius's face grew grim, and he suddenly looked much older than he had a moment ago. "Train hard this year, Harry. Train like your life depends on it."

"It might," Harry said wryly.

Sirius looked like he wanted to object, before he nodded slowly. "Maybe one day."

 _Maybe sooner than you think,_ was the unspoken addendum.

* * *

It was 10:27 in the morning when Harry boarded the Hogwarts Express, and 10:34 when he found a compartment that 'called to him', so to speak - and it so happened that said compartment was not empty. This may or may not have been the reason it was calling to him.

"You're here early," Harry commented when he stuck his head into the compartment.

"So are you," Avery replied blandly.

A second of silence ticked by.

"May I sit here?"

Avery shrugged, which Harry decided to take as a 'yes', as he slipped into the compartment and sat down across from the other boy.

They sat in silence for about fifteen minutes, with Harry reviewing his NEWT-level charms and Avery merely staring out the window, before Harry gave in and asked, "So why _are_ you here so early?"

Avery was silent for almost half a minute, and Harry wondered if he was going to answer at all. "Do you want the truth or a lie?" he asked idly.

Harry's eyebrows rose. "To be honest I'm tempted to ask for the lie, just to see what you come up with."

"It will be utterly uninteresting," Avery admitted.

Harry's shoulders sagged. "Oh, alright then. The truth, then, I suppose."

Avery nodded, hesitating a moment. "My father's a Death Eater, you know."

"Yes, I know."

If Avery was surprised that Harry was aware of this fact, he didn't show it. "I'll turn seventeen in two weeks."

Harry frowned, not quite understanding where this was going. "I'll...make a note of it."

"You shouldn't bother, but that's not the point. The point is that I'm of age now."

Realization dawned on Harry. "And they want you to join - Voldemort, I mean."

Avery flinched at the name, but nodded nonetheless.

"But what does that have to do with - " Harry's eyes widened. "They forbade you from coming back to Hogwarts, didn't they? You got here early because you had to catch the Knight Bus or hitchhike to get here and wanted to make sure you were on time."

"See, this is why I tolerate you, Potter, I barely have to try to carry my part."

Harry smiled wryly. "I'm rather good at one-sided conversations, aren't I? Perhaps I've gotten too used to talking to myself in the mirror," he mused.

It was an inside joke that only Tom would have gotten, but Avery chuckled softly nonetheless, before his face resettled into a grim shape. "So that's it. That's why I'm here so early, and if I have to leave Hogwarts, that's why."

Harry frowned. "But why would you leave once you've gone through the trouble of running away?"

Avery was silent for a few moments. "It...might come to a point where my father makes an offer that I can't refuse."

Harry felt a sinking feeling in his chest, inexplicably concerned for this boy her barely knew. "What do they have on you?"

Avery smiled sadly. "What indeed."

A few seconds of silence ticked by.

"Well...thanks, I suppose, for being so forthcoming,"

Avery shrugged carelessly. "If I disappear...I want _someone_ to know why."

Harry hesitated. "It doesn't have to be like that, Jordan."

The other boy started slightly at the use of his first name.

"I can help, if you let me," Harry offered softly. "My godfather is an auror and one of the wealthiest people in wizarding Britain...he has a lot of connections and resources. If you want out, then...I wouldn't expect anything in return. Neither would he."

Avery smiled cynically. "That eager to thwart the Dark Lord's recruitment efforts, are you?"

"Something like that."

It was at that moment that the compartment door swung open, and Pansy Parkinson's head slipped through. "Prefect meeting, come on."

Harry sighed, suddenly noticing that the train had started to move, and rose to his feet. "Right. Talk to you later, Jordan."

Avery didn't respond.

Pansy stared at him incredulously as he slipped the door closed. "Jordan? You're on first name terms with that fre -"

"Don't finish that sentence, Pansy," Harry said wearily.

Pansy's mouth snapped shut but she sneered at him nonetheless.

Some things never change.

* * *

Following the very long and boring prefect meeting, Harry and Hermione (who was the fifth year Gryffindor prefect along with Ron Weasley of all people) parted ways with the other prefects and located the compartment where Theo was sitting, with Draco notably absent, as he would be until they were all in the safety of the Room of Requirement.

Most of the wizarding world might have been convinced that Voldemort's return was a hoax, but a select few - a key few - knew better. Namely, a distinct majority of Slytherin House and the respective parents….such as Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. To say that their support of Harry and Draco's friendship had been inverted was an understatement - they had forbidden Draco from even speaking with Harry, and thus his continued association with the other members of the Order was to remain of clandestine nature.

"I wonder what Malfoy's doing right now," Hermione mused.

Harry blinked. "Do you care?"

Hermione straightened her back. "Of course not."

"He's with Crabbe and Goyle and Zabini," Theo put in anyway, "I'm sure they're having a grand old time, shitting on Dumbledore and insulting muggleborns."

Harry grimaced. "Yes, well, leaving him in their company is a necessary evil for the time being. For now, it's just us, just like old times."

Hermione and Theo smiled a bit at that.

"So, I suppose we should go over lesson plans and curriculum," Harry began. He paused briefly, to see if the other two had anything to add, but then continued, "I want to focus on duelling technique this year, if it's all the same to you two - the three of us especially know what many would consider to be….too many curses -"

Theo snorted, and Hermione's cheeks heated a little.

"- but they're useless to us, if we're not exceptional duellers. And that's the point of all this. The point has never been to learn dark magic."

"The point was to protect each other," Hermione said quietly.

"And it still is," Harry said, "Now more than ever."

He looked at both of his friends. Hermione looked concerned...but he knew from the glimmer in her eyes that she was desperately afraid, and had been for some time. Theo was as hard to read as ever.

"Harry, you're not..."

Harry frowned. "Not what?"

"You're not going to fight him again, are you?"

"I might not have a choice," Harry said evenly, "I don't think he's very pleased that I've escaped from him, what is it, three times now?" He grinned a little. "I think I've personally offended him."

Theo shook his head and muttered, "Only you."

Meanwhile, Hermione looked at him with determined eyes. "Next time you won't be alone."

Theo, as facetious as he had been a moment ago, stared at him as well in solidarity with Hermione.

Harry really didn't know what to say to that. So he just said, "I hope not."

They were all silent for a few seconds before Hermione said quietly, "I really hate him."

"Who?"

"Voldemort," she said louder. "I know I've never met him, but...but..."

Harry frowned.

"Hermione's the one who found you first, you know," Theo put in grimly, "In June."

Harry's mouth parted, and he looked at Hermione, troubled. "I...didn't know that."

"It was awful," Hermione whispered, "There was so much blood..."

Harry sighed shakily, before reaching out and taking her hand. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

Hermione scowled at him. "I'm more sorry _you_ had to go through it."

Harry smiled slightly. "I've been through worse."

Hermione looked troubled by his statement, but he didn't give her a chance to respond before clearing his throat and continuing. "So...we need to figure out how to become better duellers...without having any experts on hand to train us."

Theo nodded. "So we need to work on our casting speed."

"Speed in general," Harry corrected. "And reflexes. And stamina."

"In other words," Theo added, "We're going to be very sweaty, sore, and tired after our meetings, from now on."

Harry opened his mouth, but then closed it again, nodding. "Basically."

Hermione grimaced.

"Cheer up, Hermione," Theo said, "I'm sure Adina wouldn't mind if you worked on your stamina a bit."

Hermione's cheeks went bright red, at that. "Theodore Nott! You - you - I wouldn't - we don't -"

"Oh puh-lease," Theo said with a raised eyebrow. " _Everyone_ knows you two disappeared after your charms exam. It's hardly a mystery how you were celebrating your no doubt perfect grade."

Hermione sputtered for a good thirty seconds, but finally settled on kicking Theo in the leg.

"Owww..."

Harry sighed.

* * *

They discussed Order business, after that...eventually - a few more spells to learn, the progress on the Notebook Project, what to teach the new members...and all too soon, they'd arrived at Hogwarts, where they waited for the train to empty before they split up, with Harry and Theo to ride the carriages with the other Slytherins and Hermione to do the same with Neville and Ron.

Harry found himself relaxing as he smiled at Daphne and Tracey, and nodded silently at the others; the Slytherins, at least those in his year, weren't going to be like the rest of the ignorant populace at Hogwarts; they knew Voldemort had returned, and therefore, that Harry and Professor Dumbledore were telling the truth...and that the rest of wizarding Britain was full of willfully ignorant fools.

Nonetheless, they were all silent on the way to the castle, with Harry wordlessly willing Draco to stop with his furtive glances between Harry and the others. Luckily, with everyone seemingly stuck in their own worlds, the carriage ride ended quickly.

Immediately after exiting the carriage, however, Harry regretted it. The other students dismounting around them seemed to divine his presence with incredible ease, and he was fixed with a multitude of stares, some of them merely curious, and some of them viscerally unfriendly. Conversations ceased as people walked past the group of fifth year Slytherins, and started up again in hushed tones afterwards, and some people just blatantly stopped to stare.

"Very subtle," Theo muttered.

"As usual," Harry muttered back, striding briskly and confidently toward the Great Hall, deliberately ignoring his surroundings.

Luckily, within short minutes of leaving the train, they were seated at the Slytherin table at their usual places, amidst the bustle of the lively student body of Hogwarts, fortunately too thick to yield entirely to the distraction of Harry's presence.

Eager chatter filled the air, but it did little to loosen the tongues of the fifth year Slytherins; Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a few words as they sat down, and Tracey was whispering in Daphne's ear, but everyone else remained silent.

In an attempt to distract himself, Harry cast his eyes around the room, starting at where Hermione was seated at the Gryffindor table, obviously scolding Ron about something while Neville laughed, and drifting towards the staff table, where he immediately picked out a new addition.

Well, _the_ new addition, as always.

It was a woman, who seemed to be in a costume of some sort; it looked as though she was trying to mimic the garb of a little girl, with the bright pink band in her hair and her fluffy pink garment - but the illusion was instantly shattered by her squarish hairstyle and her pallid, toad-like face.

Harry stared at her for a moment, before he had to look away. He'd _never_ had a worse feeling when first laying eyes on another human being before. Not even Robert or Voldemort had given him the jolt of disgust he felt when he saw the empty, saccharine expression on the toad-woman's face. It was like a combination between the false sweetness Petunia greeted guests with and the utter distastefulness of Vernon wrapped into one and then amplified a few orders of magnitude.

It was just as Harry was contemplating this with dread that the doors of the Great Hall were flung open, giving way to a long line of scared-looking first years, as well as Professor McGonagall, who was carrying a stool upon which sat the sorting hat. When they finally reached the front of the room, and the transfiguration professor set down the hat the stool, the whole school waited with bated breath, until the rip near the hat's brim opened wide and started to sing.

" _In times of old when I was new_

 _And Hogwarts barely started_

 _The founders of our noble school_

 _Thought never to be parted:_

Harry sighed, preparing to drown out the song like he did every year, but just as he was about to do so, something caught his ear.

 _Why, I was there and so can tell_

 _The whole sad, sorry tale…"_

His eyebrows rose. Something told him this was going to be a _very_ long song.

"Is it really going to do this?" Theo whispered.

Harry shrugged helplessly, fishing his diary out of his pocket with a pencil and beginning to scribble down his to-do list for the remainder of the week:

 _\- Read the whole DADA text (maybe it's not as boring as it looks)  
_ _\- Organize OotMS meeting schedule  
_ _\- Decode up to page 60  
_ _\- Finish section 4 of Pathos and Logos  
_ _..._

But he was jarringly removed from his list when Theo elbowed him in the ribs.

"Apparently we're supposed to listen to this closely," he whispered, rolling his eyes.

" _...Though condemned I am to split you_

 _Still I worry that it's wrong,_

 _Though I must fulfill my duty_

 _And must quarter every year_

 _Still I wonder whether sorting_

 _May not bring the end I fear._

 _Oh, know the perils, read the signs,_

 _The warning history shows,_

 _For our Hogwarts is in danger_

 _From external, deadly foes_

 _And we must unite inside her_

 _Or we'll crumble from within._

 _I have told you,_

 _I have warned you..._

 _Let the Sorting now begin."_

"Bloody hell," Theo murmured.

Harry grimaced.

"Not exactly subtle, is it? But then again, with some of the nitwits we share classes with…"

Zabini snorted softly here.

"Perhaps it can't afford to be subtle," Harry said.

It was Theo's turn to grimace.

Before long, the sorting had run its course, with seven new students being sorted into Slytherin house, to replace, among others, Terrence Higgs, who'd been captain of the Quidditch team. This year Bole had taken his place, but he too was due to graduate within the year. A part of Harry knew that he was next in line, which he was undeniably dreading - between Tom, the Order, and his prefect badge, he had more than enough going on.

It was just as he was contemplating this with what was no doubt a troubled look on his face, that the last of the first years took her seat, and Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet and, as always, gave his short introduction.

"To our newcomers, welcome! To our old hands - welcome back! There is a time for speech making, but this is not it. Tuck in!"

It was then that Harry noticed something very strange, and quite grotesque - the Headmaster's hand. It was black and shrivelled, and looked long dead, though it moved.

"What's wrong with his hand?" he heard Theo say.

"A curse, maybe?" Harry mused.

"A nasty one."

Harry nodded. "And difficult to remove, apparently, if neither Professor Dumbledore or Professor Snape could find or craft a counter-curse."

"What do you suppose it is? Do you recognize it?"

"It looks like it could be...some sort of...live mummification curse or something."

"But why his hand? Wouldn't something like that affect your whole body?" Theo said, puzzled.

"Unless someone managed to freeze it before it spread…"

"Spread?"

"Well it's on his hand, right?"

"...yeah?"

"So it's likely that he touched something - a cursed object perhaps."

Realization dawned on Theo. "But what would -"

"Are you two going to...like...eat…?"

It was Tracey, who was looking at them with what could have been veiled concern, but just looked like slightly bored incredulity.

Harry and Theo glanced at the lavish feast that had appeared in front of them.

"That seems like a good idea," Harry said slowly, reluctant to tear his eyes away from Professor Dumbledore, who didn't seem to care that he was being watched by more than a few curious students.

He dished out some mashed potatoes and roasted chicken for himself, but didn't end up eating all that much, as he felt decidedly uneasy; between the awkward silence plaguing their section of the Slytherin table, Professor Dumbledore's hand, and the toad-woman, he was feeling like something - several things, in fact - had gone wrong. Possibly very wrong. He found himself unable to pinpoint what exactly those things were - his mind was a jumbled mess and he found himself unable to focus on anything.

Where was Tom when you needed him?

Caught up in his own fretting musings of dread, the dinner passed quickly, and soon their supper gave way to desert, with Harry's plate being cleared even though his food was only half eaten. Theo swore when the food disappeared and scolded him for not eating faster, but the same happened with dessert, and before he knew it, Professor Dumbledore was rising to his feet once again.

"Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices," the man began, "First years ought to know that the forest on the grounds is out of bounds to students.

"Also, Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four hundred and sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in the corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch's office door.

"We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons -"

"Oh thank Merlin," Theo breathed.

"- we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher."

A decidedly unanimated round of applause broke out across the room, before Professor Dumbledore continued, "Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the -"

" _Hem, hem."_

The Headmaster stopped short, then, glancing inquiringly at the toad-woman, who had risen to her feet, and looked like she very much wanted to say something.

Decidedly unfrazzled, Professor Dumbledore sat back down with a gracious smile on his face and gestured at Professor Umbridge, giving her leave to speak.

Harry glanced from the staff table over to where the Gryffindors sat; Hermione's aghast expression almost exactly mirrored Professor McGonagall's.

"Thank you, Headmaster," the toad-woman simpered with her high pitched, breathy voice, "For those kind words of welcome." She cleared her throat again. "Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say! And to see such happy little faces looking back at me!"

Harry frowned and then cast his eyes around the Hall; no one - except for Professor Umbridge - looked especially happy. In fact, many of them looked more than a little put off.

"I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I'm sure we'll be very good friends!"

Right...

"The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.

"Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress, there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress's sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no more tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation - "

"What the bloody hell is she going on about?" he heard Tracey say.

"I'm trying to figure that out myself," he murmured back.

"...because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognized as errors of judgement. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited."

And with that, the woman smiled rather sickeningly and then sat down.

Professor Dumbledore saw fit to clap politely, and some others followed his lead, before he stood up once again and continued where he left off.

"Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating. Now - as I was saying, quidditch tryouts will be held…"

"Where the hell did they find this one?" Tracey spoke up again, staring at the staff table incredulously.

"The Ministry of Magic," Harry replied absently.

At that, he noticed several interested and confused faces turn to him. He could tell Draco wanted to comment, but held his tongue.

"She's a politician," he elaborated.

Theo frowned. "How do you know that?"

Harry pursed his lips. "Well, I wouldn't say I _know_ it...but remember what she said?"

"Ummm….kind of?"

"Exactly."

"Huh?"

Harry sighed. "Let me be more specific...do you remember explicitly disagreeing or actively agreeing with anything she said?"

"Ahhh…"

"...and with that, I bid you all a good night," he heard Professor Dumbledore say loudly, and Harry immediately rose from his seat, suddenly very eager to leave the Great Hall for the shelter of his dorm room.

"Pansy?"

The girl nodded. "First years! This way!" she called in a voice more piercing than anything Harry could ever manage.

Probably a little intimidated, the first year students scrambled into the gap between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables, all looking either slightly red or slightly pale in the face, some of them casting their eyes fearfully at Harry and whispering among themselves, which left him wanting to smash his head into the nearest hard surface.

This was going to be a long year.

* * *

When Harry arrived in his dorm after shepherding the terrified first year boys into theirs, his dormmates had already arrived; Theo and Zabini were sitting on their beds, reading, while Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle sat on Goyle's bed playing a card game.

They all froze when Harry entered, though. Even Zabini looked up from his reading to stare at him, and shockingly, it was him who spoke first, though his words were decidedly sparse.

"So, you're the boy who lies now, are you?"

Harry's eyes narrowed, and he was silent for a moment as he tried to determine just what to say to that. "I have a proposal," he said quietly as he closed the door behind him. "No politics. Not here, where we sleep. Silence, sleep, and idle chatter - that's it. I don't lie unless I need to, and I keep my promises - that's all you need to know."

Theo smiled at him, and while Crabbe and Goyle looked a bit confused, Zabini and Draco nodded.

"Thank god," Harry muttered, collapsing onto his bed and drawing the curtains shut.

For a while he lay there silently, waiting for any indication that Tom was awake; eventually, though, his idle hopes drained away into nothing, and he fell into a fitful slumber.

* * *

Again, sorry for the short, choppy, chapter. Hopefully the next one will be more interesting.


	21. A Can of Worms

AN1: For the sake of convenience I'm changing around the order of Harry's first day of classes. Hope you don't mind.

AN2: I feel compelled, once again, to apologise for how very slow my updates have become. As usual there's a lot happening - I won't bore you with the details but I can assure you that it's as dramatic as usual - and it's really hard to actually pull together the motivation to write. Not to mention, I've built up a weird anxiety about writing as of late and I'm not quite sure how to fix it. _Anyway_ , I'm really, really sorry, and I'll try to be better.

* * *

 **Chapter 20: A Can of Worms (or five)**

"I have a rather brilliant proposition," Harry said loftily as he, Hermione, and Theo walked briskly down the hallway leading away from their History of Magic classroom, a ways behind the crowd of fifth years, "That the entirety of the Hogwarts population either drops or fails out of History of Magic -"

"Harry!" Hermione immediately scolded, "History of Magic is an _immensely_ important subject -"

" _Exactly,_ and nobody's learning it. Now hush and listen to my brilliant proposition."

"Fine," Hermione said sourly.

"I propose that whilst everyone either drops, skips, or fails out of History of Magic, we begin a school-wide history study club that covers important and relevant events in both magical and muggle history in an engaging and practical way."

Hermione blinked. "That's...brilliant."

Harry smiled. "Yes, I thought so too."

"Good luck getting people to actually come, though," Theo put in.

"I would also propose there be snacks."

Hermione nodded avidly, but Theo still looked skeptical. "I'm not sure even snacks would do the trick, mate."

"And possibly alcohol."

"Harry James Potter!"

"Just for the upper years!" Harry said hastily.

"It's still illegal for everyone under seventeen!"

"It would be for the greater good!"

"You can't blatantly break the law for the greater good!"

Harry looked at her confusedly. "We've done that plenty of times, Hermione."

Hermione's cheeks went bright red. "That's...different."

Theo snorted loudly and opened his mouth to comment - before he tripped over and fell flat on his face.

Hermione and Harry spun around at the sound of laughing, their surprised glances quickly turning into glares.

"Did you just -" Hermione began.

"The blood traitor deserves a lot worse, mudblood," an older Slytherin standing behind them said with a malicious glint in his eye.

Harry drew his wand with well-practiced swiftness, and a moment later Theo had risen to his feet, wand drawn as well.

Hermione's eyes darted over to them. "Harry!" she hissed.

Harry followed her eyes to where they pointed distinctly at the prefect's badge on his uniform. Left hand balling into his fist, he slowly lowered his wand before saying coldly, "Twenty points from Slytherin, Reeves."

"You can't -"

"I can, and I can assign detentions too, if I wish. I'm sure Professor Snape would _love_ some help scrubbing cauldrons after the first years' first class today."

Reeves and Orson, the other Slytherin boy beside him, both tightened their grips on their wands.

Harry rolled his eyes. "It's three against one, Reeves."

Reeves quirked an eyebrow and barked out a laugh. "Excellent arithmetic, Potter. I can't believe everyone calls you a genius -"

Harry quickly flicked his wrist, and a moment later he was holding Orson's wand in his left hand. "Three against one."

Reeves grit his teeth, while Orson, outraged, took a threatening step forward. "Give that back, Potter!"

"Mmm, no, I think not."

"Harry!" Hermione hissed.

Harry shrugged with feigned nonchalance.

"Potter," Reeves said warningly.

"I'll give it back..." he relented, "Just not right now. I think we'd _all_ be a lot safer if it remained _three against one_ , for now."

Reeves glared at him, with Orson looking ready to burst at his side, before he spat out, "Fine."

Both boys gave him two very ugly scowls before reluctantly walking off.

"I'll see you later, in the Common Room," Harry called after them.

The two seventh year Slytherins froze in their steps - but only for a split second, before they disappeared around the corner.

Hermione spared an annoyed glare at Harry, before she turned to Theo, horrified. "Are you alright?"

Theo wiped a little bit of blood away from his slightly crooked nose. "I managed to break my fall - mostly."

"With your nose?" Harry asked.

"Shut up, Harry."

Harry frowned as he picked the rest of Theo's fallen books off the ground, before drawing his wand and muttering, " _Episky_. How did they know?"

Theo shrugged, prodding his now-healed nose with his index finger. "Reeves is my cousin. He must have found out that I no longer live with my father, and deduced the reason. He's not as stupid as he looks."

"But still rather stupid, if he thinks this isn't going to come back to bite him," Harry said darkly.

"Harry," Hermione said warningly.

"What?" Harry said innocently, "Haven't you ever heard of karma?"

Hermione rolled her eyes as she opened the door to their Defence classroom, where Professor Umbridge was already seated at the front of the room, behind the teacher's desk, wearing the same fluffy pink garb as the night before.

Their conversation died as they approached their desks, and Harry noticed that everyone was deathly silent as they entered, not really knowing what to expect from the new teacher, who had given them a very prominent - and puzzling - first introduction the night before. Harry, for one, was just pleased that everyone's attention was fixed on someone who was not him.

"Well, good morning," the woman said cheerfully once everyone had taken their seat - a comment that was followed by a few mumbled, "Good Morning"s.

But Professor Umbridge was not satisfied with that. "Tut, tut," she said with mock unhappiness, " _That_ won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply, 'Good morning, Professor Umbridge'. One more time, please. Good morning, class!"

"Good morning, Professor Umbridge," the students echoed obediently.

Meanwhile, Harry's stomach dropped - he had a bad feeling about this. Already their Defence against the Dark Arts class had evolved into a sad parody of a primary school classroom.

"There, now," Professor Umbridge crooned, "That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."

Harry's stomach dropped even further - the bad feeling got worse.

Professor Umbridge then opened her handbag and drew her own very short wand, and tapped the blackboard, causing two lines to appear:

 _Defence Against the Dark Arts:_

 _A Return to basic Principles_

"Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?" the Professor began, "The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum -"

Here, Harry glanced at Theo, who muttered, "I see it now."

"- has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your OWL year. You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully, structured, theory-centred, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following please."

She once again tapped the blackboard, causing several lines depicting their course aims to appear, which were promptly copied down, after which the professor continued, "Has everyone got a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard?"

Enthusiasm already exhausted after copying down the course aims, the class's response was tepid, to say the least.

"I think we'll try that again," Professor Umbridge said sweetly, "When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply, 'Yes, Professor Umbridge', or 'No, Professor Umbridge'. So, has everyone got a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard?"

"Yes, Professor Umbridge."

Harry very much wanted to say 'No, Professor Umbridge', just to see what the woman would do, but thought better of it, and joined in the droning of his fellow students.

Meanwhile, Professor Umbridge continued, "Good, I should like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners'. There will be no need to talk."

As Harry scanned the book - which he hadn't had the wherewithal to read thus far, due to the rather dull table of contents - he had to wonder what there would be to talk about, even if they were encouraged to do so.

Idly flipping through the pages, his mind drifted to what he'd read in his mother's notes the night before, when ample evidence of insomnia was gathered around 3 am. The next few pages he'd decrypted were again in journal-style, as she tried to hash out the main hypothesis she was going to experiment with. The only thing she seemed certain of was that she was going to interpret the theory of inverses in a specific way that necessitated that an inverse be considered the inverse of the _mechanism_ of a spell, not its effect (which made sense to Harry, since the actual mechanics of a spell might be completely unrelated to that of a spell which could be considered an inverse to it effects-wise). Therefore, the inverse of the killing curse was definitely not a spell that would bring the dead back to life, or create life in some manner; rather, it would invert the mechanism of the killing curse.

Now, no one, as far as he knew, was certain of the _exact_ mechanism of the killing curse, but his mother seemed determined to tackle that particular conundrum as well -

Harry winced, having just been elbowed in the ribs. Frowning, he turned to Theo, who inclined his head toward Hermione, who was sitting beside Ron Weasley with a closed textbook in front of her and her hand high in the air, a grim look on her face.

Most of the class was staring at her, at this point, though Professor Umbridge was (probably deliberately, given her slightly strained facial expression) ignoring her.

Harry was left to stare on, puzzled, for nearly two more minutes before Professor Umbridge finally lifted her eyes from whatever she was reading and turned to Hermione.

"Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?" she asked sweetly.

"Not about the chapter, no," Hermione answered curtly.

"Well, we're reading it just now," Professor Umbridge said through a strained smile, "If you have other queries, we can deal with them at the end of class."

"I've got a query about your course aims," Hermione said.

Professor Umbridge's eyebrow twitched. "And your name is…?"

"Hermione Granger."

Professor Umbridge's lips twitched slightly, and Harry indignantly observed a veiled expression of disdain. "Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully."

"Well, I don't," Hermione said plainly. "There's nothing up there about _using_ defensive spells."

A murmur of agreement spread over the classroom.

Professor Umbridge laughed a little at that, and Hermione looked affronted. " _Using_ defensive spells? Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to _use_ a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?"

"We're not going to use magic!?" Ron Weasley interjected loudly from beside Hermione.

"Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class Mr. …?"

"Weasley," Ron said sourly.

"Well Mr. Weasley, in answer to your question, no, we will not."

Hermione's hand was back in the air.

"Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?"

"Yes," Hermione, with frustration seeping into her voice. "Surely the whole point of Defence against the Dark Arts is to _use_ defensive spells?"

Professor Umbridge smiled at her with the most artificial smile Harry had ever seen. "Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?"

"I don't need to be to see that -"

"Well then, I'm afraid you are not _qualified_ to decide what the 'whole point' of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new program of study. You will be learning about spells in a secure, risk free way -"

"Nothing worthwhile is risk free," Hermione interjected, voice shaking a little, "Certainly not magic. And this is a _magic_ school. We all came here to learn how to _use_ magic, not how to read about it."

"Any muggle can do that," Harry could not help but mutter, perhaps a little too loudly.

" _Silence_ , Mr. Potter," Professor Umbridge said with barely hidden nastiness.

Everyone seemed to notice her tone, however, and quieted completely.

Professor Umbridge turned to Hermione, then. "Ten points from Gryffindor for interrupting a teacher, Miss Granger."

Hermione's entire body tensed. "And do you have anything to say about -"

"Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!"

Hermione thrust her hand into the air.

"Yes?" Umbridge said with feigned sweetness.

"Professor," Hermione said tensely, "Do you not agree that our schooling should prepare us for the real world?"

"The purpose of school is to prepare you for your examinations, Miss Granger."

"So we're not supposed to -" Ron began.

"Your hand, Mr. Weasley!" the woman snapped, clearly starting to become irate.

Ron stuck his hand high in the air. "So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting out there?"

"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger. Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?"

"Perhaps Voldemort might," Hermione said coldly.

The entire room fell silent. Harry could do nothing but stare on in horror; at this point it was becoming clear why exactly Dolores Umbridge had been chosen for their professor this year, and Hermione had just fallen into the trap she had just set.

"Now, let me make a few things quite plain. You have been told that a certain dark wizard has returned from the dead and is at large once again. _This is a lie._ "

That was why she was there - she was meant to run damage control where the two people perpetuating the 'lie' of Voldemort's return would be situated all year.

"According to the people who _weren_ _'t_ there," Hermione said stiffly. "The people who have no _right_ to decide whether it is the truth or a lie."

"The Ministry of Magic has every right to -"

"What, flout their ignorance? I suppose they do."

And Hermione was trying to prove a point, like the loyal, self-sacrificing Gryffindor she was.

"Detention, Miss Granger. Tomorrow evening."

Hermione sat up very straight at that, and Harry could tell that a part of her wanted to protest, while another part wanted to burst into tears, while another part wanted to just walk out. But she did none of those things.

"What time, professor?" she asked evenly.

"Wednesday, at seven o'clock p.m.," Umbridge said with a positively _stunning_ smile. "Now, if you are quite done, we can all return to today's readings."

"I think we might have a bigger problem than History of Magic," Theo whispered beside him.

Harry grimaced.

* * *

 _Dear Mr. Black,_

 _I would be most gratified if you would join me in my office this evening at seven o'clock._

 _Yours truly,  
_ _A.W.P.B. Dumbledore_

"From Dumbledore?" Tracey asked in surprise as she peered over his shoulder.

Harry instinctively jerked the note out of her line of sight. "Yes," he bit out, mildly annoyed.

Meanwhile, Theo shoved her over and sat in between them. "MInd your own business, Davis."

"Mind _your_ own business, Nott."

Theo just rolled his eyes and Harry sighed.

Tracey began to dish some pancakes out onto her plate, smearing compote all over them. "So, Theo, rumour has it that you no longer live with your father."

"Does it now?"

Tracey nodded. "Rumour also has it that your father was present at You-Know-Who's _alleged_ -" here, she smirked at Harry, who huffed quietly "- resurrection, and that you, furious that he would put your best friend in mortal danger, disowned him in a bout of rage."

"I should have," Theo muttered darkly, before picking up the sandwich on his plate, rising to his feet, and heading for the door.

Harry watched him concernedly for a moment, before turning to Tracey.

"Tracey," he said with feigned lightness, "Could you do me a favour?"

The girl's smile wavered a little. "Possibly."

Harry nodded. "Let Theo be. This is hard enough for him without your prying."

Tracey had the decency to look at least a little guilty, before her expression cleared. "Rumour also has it that Reeves jinxed Theo in the halls yesterday. I haven't heard anything about it since," she added on pointedly.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "He wasn't in the Common Room last night." He cast his eyes down the table to where Reeves and Orson sat, chatting with some of the other seventh years. "No matter, though - he can't hide forever."

Tracey smirked. "No, he certainly can't."

"Besides," Harry said, drawing Orson's wand out of his pocket, "I have to give Orson back his wand."

Tracey's eyebrows rose. "And why do you have that?"

Harry shrugged. "A simple case of fixing the odds."

Tracey rolled her eyes. "Cryptic as ever. Honestly, why do people even _like_ you? You're annoying as hell."

"Right back at you, Tracey."

* * *

The day flew by quickly - charms, transfiguration, and ancient runes usually did - and soon, Harry found himself standing in the doorway of the Headmaster's office, mind, as always, taking flight when he saw the multitude of books, paintings, gizmos, and gadgets populating the elderly man's office.

"Harry, why don't you take a seat," the man offered amiably, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk with his cursed hand.

As he did so, Harry could not help himself - his eyes flickered down at the grotesque, diseased flesh on the elderly professor's hand. He looked away quickly, but not quickly enough.

"I see you have noticed the outcome of my most recent mistake," the man said lightly, "A nasty bit of dark magic, I must say."

Harry nodded. "I apologize, sir - I didn't mean to stare."

"Oh, not at all, Harry. It's quite ghastly, isn't it?"

Harry deigned neither to agree nor disagree. "If I may ask, sir - have you located the countercurse yet?"

The headmaster smiled at that. "To the best of my knowledge, there is none - it's a rather brilliant piece of spell work, if I do say so myself, which is most unfortunate for me, seeing as I am now, for better or for worse, stuck with it."

"But...the curse is contained, isn't it?"

"Almost," the professor said, "Almost, but not quite. It is spreading, albeit slowly. I suspect I will be dead by the end of next summer."

Harry was certain his heart stopped, for a moment. Albus Dumbledore was going to die. The most powerful wizard alive. His 'most dangerous foe'. The greatest threat to his life. A man who might kill him if he knew the truth. A man who cared for him. A man he'd come to trust. A man he had, if he was honest with himself, begun to consider….a friend. He was dying. And he and Tom had nothing to do with it.

"Sir, I -"

"No need for condolences, Harry. After all, death is but the next great adventure. I'm rather looking forward to it, if I am being honest."

Harry nodded slowly, not really knowing what he could possibly say besides giving his sincere condolences.

"Now, I am sure you are wondering how I came across this nasty bit of dark magic."

"Sir, I wouldn't want to -"

"Not at all, Harry. You see, the tale, while not exactly thrilling, is an important one for you to hear. It is short, though it leads to two much longer discussions."

Harry frowned bemusedly.

"To cut straight to the point, I was cursed when I placed this on my finger."

Time seemed to grind to a halt when Harry saw what Professor Dumbledore placed in the middle of his desk; his heart stopped, the turning cogs of his mind shuddered to a halt, and his body froze in place. It was a golden ring, with a small black stone embedded into it, bearing the mark of the Deathly Hallows; it was Tom's ring - or rather, the fake they'd planted in the Gaunt shack over two years ago.

Someone had found it. _Albus Dumbledore_ had found it.

Albus Dumbledore had found it and succumbed to the curse Tom had placed on it. It _was_ them. Tom killed Albus Dumbledore. He finally did it; he finally defeated the only wizard he had ever feared. He was going to be positively _thrilled_.

Harry was jolted back into reality when Professor Dumbledore continued, "I found this in the former domicile of a pureblood family known as the Gaunts. They've all but died out now, but they left this curious artefact behind." He paused. "Do you know what this is, Harry?

"A cursed ring, sir?" Harry said confusedly, inwardly praising himself for how firmly his neutral mask was still in place.

"Oh, it's much more than that, Harry," the professor said jovially, " _This_ is what is known as...a 'horcrux'."

It took everything in him not to break down and run or hide or cry or start hurling curses or beg for his life or _something -_ instead, he just sat there with a completely blank look on his face, before he frowned and asked the obvious question. "I'm sorry, sir, I have no idea what that is."

"I should hope so, Harry," Professor Dumbledore said mildly, "I would be very worried if you did."

Harry's frown deepened. "So what is it, sir?"

"A horcrux is an object in which a witch or wizard has hidden a piece of their soul."

Harry's eyes widened. "A _piece_ of their soul? The soul can be split into pieces?"

"It can," Professor Dumbledore said quietly, "Care to venture a guess how?"

Here, Harry had to be very careful. He couldn't afford to appear too knowledgeable, but he also couldn't give an answer obviously below his calibre. "I suppose you'd have to perform soul magic on your soul when it's at its most vulnerable."

"And when is that, Harry?"

"When...it's open to direct interference from the physical world?"

"Very good. And when might this happen?"

Harry was silent for a moment. "When you murder someone, in cold blood."

Professor Dumbledore looked at him appraisingly for a moment. "Exactly so. When another human being is at your mercy, and you elect to violate nature in such a cruel way, your soul is left open to attack from the physical world; the victim's soul will lash out and weaken the barrier between worlds. When this happens, usually the soul in question will merely fracture slightly, perhaps absorbing some left-over dark magic, but should one perform the correct ritual, one can attack this fracture further until the soul breaks in two."

Harry grimaced. "That sounds...incredibly painful."

"Indeed it does."

"Then sir, why would someone do such a thing?"

Professor Dumbledore was silent for a moment. "Desperation, Harry."

"...desperation?"

"A desperation to flee the inevitable, to become _more_ , by becoming less."

Harry put a look of realization on his face. "A desperation to escape death."

"Just so."

The pair fell into silence, but after a minute Harry asked, "Why are you telling me this, sir?"

The professor considered him for a moment. "Because, Harry, this horcrux is not the only of its kind."

Again, Harry was again hard pressed not to panic, as Professor Dumbledore reached into his desk and produced Tom Riddle's diary, placing it beside the ring.

"I believe that this book which managed to possess several of my students was also a horcrux - a rather over-zealous one. Which, of course, begs the question, Harry - how _did_ you manage to cleanse it? I think we can both easily deduce that casting _anathema purgo_ on a horcrux - an object imbued the soul itself - would have meant your death, had you been foolish enough to attempt it. So I must, once again, ask for the truth, Harry."

Meanwhile, Harry's mind was whirring into overdrive. How could he _possibly_ dig himself out of this hole? There were only a few ways to destroy horcruxes, and all of them involved _very_ dark and destructive magic -

"The killing curse," he blurted out. "I...I used the killing curse."

The elderly professor was silent for a moment, leaving Harry's mind in a whirlwind. Was the man shocked? Angry? Disappointed? He didn't look any of those things. He looked….calm, as per usual.

"I see," he said eventually. "That is very impressive, Harry, very impressive indeed."

Harry's mouth fell open in genuine shock. "I-impressive, sir?"

"It is, Harry, very impressive. To cast the killing curse at the mere age of twelve is unheard of - I doubt even Voldemort himself had been able to do so."

Harry sighed shakily. "A-and...and...don't you have anything else to say, sir?"

The headmaster's eyebrows rose. "What would you like me to say, Harry? Would you like me to rebuke you? Would you like me to be angry with you? Would you like me to describe how disappointed I am in you?"

Harry opened his mouth, but found nothing to say.

"I doubt there is anything I can say to you that has not already crossed your mind; I doubt you are unaware of the path you are on that led you to accomplish such a feat, and nor are you ignorant of the consequences, I believe. I will, however, ask you a question."

"...sir?"

"Are you happy?"

Once again, Harry's mind ground to halt; not in panic, this time, though - it was in utter confusion.

"Am I….happy?"

The professor nodded. "Are you happy with this path that you are on? Do you gladly face the consequences? Are you happy with the person you are becoming?"

For a moment, there was silence.

"I...I don't know."

The words just slipped out. He was too busy to notice, too busy being shocked, angry, and a little bit horrified with himself. He had always asked himself plenty of questions - he had always kept his behaviour in check. Was he doing the right thing? Would his actions have undesirable consequences? How much of a risk was he taking? Was he hurting someone else? Was he making someone else happy?

But he had never - not once - asked himself this question. He had never paid attention to his own happiness. He'd never evaluated his self-image. Was he happy with his life? Was he happy with himself? Did he even _like_ himself?

No. The answer was no. Why that was the case...well, that was a can of worms he was not keen on opening.

As though he read Harry's mind, Professor Dumbledore looked at him knowingly, saying quietly, "I believe you do, Harry."

Harry could feel himself shaking, his skin cold and clammy. But he was startled out of his dazed spiral into despair by Professor Dumbledore's voice.

"I once knew a boy very much like you, Harry - a boy that was good and true at heart but became swept away by the weight of his moral and personal responsibilities, lured into the deep by forbidden knowledge that was all too fascinating. He did what he believed was right and necessary - but he lacked the ability to truly acknowledge the consequences of his actions, both for him and those around him. Perhaps most tragically, though - he never emerged from what he became."

"...emerged, sir?"

Professor Dumbledore smiled, a little sadly. "Have you ever thought about the concept of personhood, Harry? That is, what it means to be a person."

"I can't say I have."

"Really," Professor Dumbledore said with some measure of wonder, "Even so, it must have occurred to you at some point that _people change_."

"Well, yes."

"They change for many different reasons, of course - sometimes we choose to change ourselves...but sometimes we change by necessity. Sometimes, the world needs us to be something other than what we are, and so we become that, in order to survive."

Harry was silent for a moment. "Yes, I think I know what you mean."

"Indeed. Someone might be inclined to wonder, then, how we can refer to 'people' as single entities, when they can change so arbitrarily."

Harry frowned. "Even when people change, though, don't they always hold on to something of themselves?"

Professor Dumbledore nodded. "Precisely. Even when forced to change into something contrary to our nature or ideals, a person can sometimes hang on to pieces of themselves which will for a time lie dormant - and then one day emerge all the stronger because of what they have endured in order to survive."

Harry nodded slowly. "So you mean, sir, that this person you knew...he became something contrary to his nature, and couldn't hold on to the aspects of himself that made him who he was?"

Professor Dumbledore's eyes drifted away. "He could not - or would not...one of the two. All I know is that by the time I realized what he had become, it was too late to save him."

They both sat in silence while one minute, and then two, ticked by.

Harry cleared his throat quietly. "You said, sir, that your story leads to two conversations."

The elderly professor started, although very subtly. "So it does, Harry. So it does. I suppose you have guessed who made these horcruxes?"

"Voldemort," Harry whispered.

"Just so."

"I don't see what there is to discuss then, sir. They've both been destroyed."

The professor looked at him shrewdly. "Do you really think Voldemort would have only two safeguards in place against his own death?"

Harry made sure to widen his eyes, despite how drained he felt. "You mean...there are more?"

"Indeed. At least a few, I believe."

"Then...in order to defeat Voldemort…"

"We must find the remainder."

"We?"

Professor Dumbledore smiled for the first time in what had seemed like forever. "Indeed. I shall no doubt require assistance at some point on this quest, and as this will likely prove a very cerebral activity, your assistance will by doubly useful. As they say, two heads are better than one - all the more when both of the heads are rather clever. After all...it _is_ you who will be defeating Voldemort, one day."

"O-ok," Harry stuttered out, mind once again in a whirlwind.

The headmaster's smile increased in brilliance. "Most excellent. Please return to my office exactly one week from the time you arrived here, then, and we shall continue our second conversation."

Harry nodded dumbly.

Meanwhile, the professor's smile softened. "You may go now, Harry. Have yourself a lovely evening."

Harry nodded again, rising from his seat slowly. "I'll...try, sir. Thank you,"

"No, thank _you_ Harry, for indulging an old man so patiently."

Harry smiled weakly. "Not at all, sir."

* * *

As Harry walked back to his Common Room, the air felt oppressively heavy around him. Gone was the whimsy he still felt when he traversed the halls of Hogwarts, replaced by an unshakable gloom, muddled with a threatening aura.

He'd never taken part in a more sobering conversation than the one he just shared with the Headmaster. Talking about... _difficult_ feelings with Theo or even the end of the world with Hermione just couldn't measure up; even without the looming threat of the Headmaster's knowledge of horcruxes, his other comments were overwhelmingly abrasive. Who was he? Had he always been the person he was today? How much had he changed? Why did he change? Who was he? Did he know who he was? Did he really understand the consequences? Did he like who he was? Was he even ok with who he was? Who was he?

"Harry?"

Harry was pretty sure he jumped half a foot in the air at the sound of his own name, and looked up to see Hermione staring at him with wide eyes.

"Someone's distracted."

Harry nodded slowly. "If the someone in question is me, then that is certainly a true statement."

Hermione chuckled with...something resembling unease. "What….what are you doing out so late?"

"Existential angst," Harry muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing….um, I was speaking with Professor Dumbledore. What are _you_ doing out so late?"

"O-oh, um -" she clasped her hands behind her back suddenly "- detention, remember?"

Harry nodded in understanding, before noticing the redness in his friend's eyes and her teeth chewing on her lip. "Hermione, are you ok?"

She tightened her posture. "Just tired."

His eyes narrowed, and he took a few steps toward her. "What's wrong?"

She wrung her hands behind her back, before wincing. "N-nothing."

"Show me your hands Hermione."

The girl grimaced, before slowly producing two hands and presenting them before Harry, the right one marred by bright red letters in Hermione's own handwriting.

' _I must not tell lies.'_

Existential angst immediately forgotten, a wave of icy water washed over Harry's skin as he took Hermione's hands in his.

" _She_ did this?"

"Yes," Hermione whispered.

Harry gritted his teeth, feeling himself beginning to shake. "That...that vicious, depraved _bitch -_ "

"Harry!" Hermione hissed, glancing around.

"Isn't that what she is, though?" he said furiously, beginning to pull away. "She _will_ pay -"

"It's not that simple!" Hermione interjected quietly, grasping after Harry's hands and tugging on them. "Think about this rationally - if we report her, what's to stop the Ministry from sending someone even worse?"

"I think the Ministry will have _far_ too big a scandal on their hands once this comes out -"

"No, it won't," Hermione said patiently, "It's demonstrable that she's a former Ministry employee and that the Ministry sent her because of Educational Decree twenty-two, but nothing more than that. We can't prove why the decree was put in place, and why she was chosen in particular - it could all just be pinned as a careless misjudgement by some poor, innocent bureaucrat. It will look bad for the Ministry, but it will hardly be damning."

Harry took a deep breath. "Yes...yes...you're right. We can't prove that Fudge sent her here _for a reason_ \- as I think we've both guessed he did - and the next person they send may be smarter, they may not leave tangible _scars_ on their victims."

"Exactly."

Harry was silent for a moment. "Do you know someone with a camera?"

Hermione paused, before nodding.

"Take pictures of the wounds, and give them to me in the morning."

Hermione frowned. "What are you going to do with them?"

Harry's lips twitched. "Remember Miranda Thistlebaum?"

"...yes?"

"I think it's about time we became reacquainted."

* * *

Harry was feeling...odd, when he returned to his Common Room. All at once, he was filled with wonderment, terror, and fury...between his conversations with the Headmaster and Hermione, he was, well, verging on mentally...fractured, if he was being honest with himself. That's why, when he caught sight of Reeves, his stomach dropped while simultaneously leaping with glee.

Slowly, he began to saunter through the room, toward where Reeves, Orson, and Bole were playing cards in a corner, a pile of galleons beside each of them. Keeping his footsteps light, he didn't make a sound until he'd come up behind Reeves, when he smiled and said, "Hello Reeves - how are you on this fine evening?"

Immediately, the three gamblers froze, and Reeves slowly turned around.

A second passed, before the older boy sneered. "What do you want Potter?"

Harry smiled coldly. "I asked, how are you this fine evening?"

Before Reeves could answer, Harry continued, "Lucky, perhaps? Gambling is against school rules, you know. I suppose I should take points, but I feel like you need a more _tangible_ lesson about breaking school rules."

And with that, Harry flicked his wrist, and Reeves was flung into the middle of the room. By now, all the occupants of the Common Room had quieted, and all eyes were trained on Reeves and Harry - but Harry didn't care. All he could think of was the blood running down Theo's face two days ago and the smug smirk on Reeves's lips. Those two images filled his entire brain, along with those two ugly words - ' _mudblood', 'blood-traitor' -_ that Reeves had dared to utter in front of him.

Swiftly, he drew his wand and flicked it, before flourishing it just the right way to produce a bright purple flash of light that hit Reeves square in the forehead. With equal swiftness, he placed his wand back in his pocket and turned on his heel, making for his dorm room.

Predictably, he heard Reeves laugh, rising to his feet. "Your curse failed, Potter!"

Harry glanced over his shoulder, smirking. "It was the _pursuant nightmare curse_ , Reeves - seven days' worth of it."

Gleefully, he watched Reeves pale, before quickly drawing his wand.

"Remove it, Potter."

"Mmm, no, I don't think so," Harry said lightly.

Reeves cast a couple of curses - both quite dark - which Harry managed to easily deflect without a wand, before disarming him.

Smiling at Reeves's outraged face, Harry tossed the wand - along with Orson's - over to a pallid-looking Bole.

"Make sure they don't do anything stupid with these."

Bole nodded slowly. "W-will do, Potter."

And with a brilliant smile, Harry swept out of the room, feeling much, much better.

* * *

Harry moaned quietly when he looked at his watch - it read _2 a.m.,_ and, predictably, he was still far from falling asleep. He really, _really_ wanted to fall asleep at a decent time that night. Groaning, he rolled over onto his side, wrenching his eyes shut - before blinking them open again, when he heard a voice, loud and clear, echoing through his mind.

 _Do not sleep yet, Harry - we have much to discuss._

Tom was back. Thank god.

* * *

And that's a wrap! Hopefully it was up to...someone's standards. As usual I don't like my work but I don't know if that means anything anymore.


	22. Reunion

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of this, but I especially don't own the sections from OotP and HBP that I used.

 **AN1:** I know this is getting old, but I'm _really_ sorry for the long wait. It's been an immensely hectic summer - the day after I posted my last chapter I sent my first email to a professor who is now my PhD advisor. That's right, guys, I finally found the PhD program of my dreams and am moving to Europe in September! I'm excited and terrified, and I have a tonne to do...but I've also been trying to put more time into writing in the last few weeks. So I'll be posting today and then hopefully every two weeks for the next couple of months. We'll see, I'll do my best.

 **AN2:** I did take some sections from this chapter straight from the books...there's a _Daily Prophet_ article from OotP and I closely adapted one of the memory sequences from HBP.

 **AN3:** On that note...you'll notice that in these scenes, Dumbledore asks Harry to translate the parseltongue for him. I'd forgotten that JKR said that Dumbledore can understand it, but since that's never confirmed in the books themselves (correct me if I'm wrong), I'm leaving that detail out.

* * *

 **Chapter 21: Reunion**

 _Honestly, it pains me, Harry, that you prioritize the mudblood's ramblings over the critical dialogue we have yet to commence in earnest,_ Tom was saying in a tone that promised pain later.

However, Harry couldn't bring himself to care, all that much. He wanted to make it as clear as possible that fucking off for nearly three months without so much as an _exceptionally_ detailed explanation was _not_ acceptable. Even less acceptable was fucking off for three months and then expecting a report without so much as a hello. As such, he hadn't given Tom anything but excuses all week - and it was now Thursday - leaving the older man to mentally crucio him whilst he fit together the pieces himself.

So once again he turned his attention to Hermione.

"I think," she was saying, "We ought to store information in such a way that it can be accessed like data inside a database."

Harry frowned. "And how would that work?"

 _It matters not,_ Tom answered in Hermione's stead, dismissively, _I do believe it is time you learned the crucial task of delegation and the even more crucial task of_ doing what you're told.

Harry winced at the shots of pain emanating throughout his head, but luckily Hermione didn't notice the twitching of his face, too caught up in rapidly taking notes in her notebook.

"In tabular form, where each record has multiple fields and a unique key attached to it. So for messages, we could have the key be some number in a sequence, say, message three-hundred and fifty-seven, with the field 'sender' being equal to 'Hermione Granger' and the 'time sent' field being equal to whatever time the message was sent at."

"Ah, and then there would be a field called 'message' or 'content' that would contain the message itself."

 _Why you are so absorbed in this inane little project is beyond me..._

"Exactly! And then we can build the spells used to access and store the information on a query language we devise…"

 _It has been no less than seven days since we established contact -_

"Query language?"

Hermione nodded avidly. "I've been speaking to my cousin at MIT, and he works with something called SQL, or the structured query language, which -"

 _\- and I have repeatedly made it clear - very clear - that I must be updated thoroughly on the current situation before we proceed -_

At that moment, a rather irritating - but carefully volumed - alarm began to sound, and Hermione and Harry both looked at their watches.

 _What in the blazes is that?_

Harry sighed. "Eight already?"

"Seems like it."

"Well, we'd better pack up our things and head to breakfast, or else Theo will have our heads."

Hermione chuckled.

After packing up their things, they left the library quietly, Harry trying as best as he could to remain perfectly upright as a very irritated Tom Riddle bestowed him with shot of stabbing pain after shot of stabbing pain. Once it became clear that they were alone in the corridor they were following to the Great Hall, Hermione spoke up quietly, "Have you heard back from Miranda Thistlebaum yet?"

A small smile spread across Harry's lips. "I have. She's begun an in-depth investigation into Umbridge's past, and has approached one of her Ministry contacts about getting more information about the drafting and passing of Educational Decree twenty-two." His smile slipped off his face. "How's your hand?"

Hermione glanced down at it briefly. "Almost healed."

Harry's smile returned. "Good."

At that moment, another stab of pain penetrated Harry's brain, this one so violent that it nearly sent him to his knees.

 _My patience wears thin, Harry_.

He slowly straightened himself up. "I actually have to head to the bathroom quickly, Hermione. See you at class?"

She frowned. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah...just...stomach ache. I think I might need to go, you know, vomit."

She looked at him concernedly. "Are you getting ill, you think?"

He shrugged and tried to laugh off the pain. "I think I'm fine. Just ate a bit too much chocolate last night I think - I can't quite keep up with the number of 'care packages' Sirius sends me." In reality, he just tossed most of them.

She shook her head. "Of course. That man is so _irresponsible_ sometimes. Do you need some help?"

He shook his head. "I'll be fine."

She nodded slowly. "Ok, well, see you, Harry."

Waving at his friend, he turned around and veered down the small passageway that led to the boys' washroom, before stealthily ducking into an empty classroom and locking the door behind him.

"Do we have to do this now?" he asked after putting a privacy charm up, "I'm hungry."

 _And I don't care,_ Tom said blithely, _You've been ignoring my attempts to converse for a week, and while I have been patient -_

Harry snorted.

\- very _patient due to the fact that your frustrations are not entirely unwarranted, my patience has grown exceptionally thin at this point._

Harry sighed. "Fine. Look, there's not much to tell. Voldemort's been completely silent, and our biggest problem right now is the Ministry of Magic, which you've no doubt garnered from the fact that it's been spat in our faces for the past week by the _Daily Prophet_ and the presence of Dolores Umbridge...oh, yeah, and Professor Dumbledore knows about your horcruxes."

There was a brief pause...followed by some of the worst pain he had ever felt in his life.

And that's when he blacked out.

* * *

The first thing Harry did when he woke was look at his watch, which read _8:31._

"Fuck."

 _To say the least,_ Tom spat furiously.

"I'm gonna b' late f'r brekfst," Harry slurred.

His comment was followed by more pain.

"Y'know," he said, rolling onto his back, "M'brains gotten 'lot more pain 'rsistent in the last year."

The pain intensified.

Harry groaned. "If y'd stop that, I c'd finsh my report."

The pain suddenly lifted.

 _...yes?_

Harry took several calming breaths. "He's dying. He touched the fake ring before he finished the curse-breaking process, and now he's dying. Even Professor Snape couldn't break the curse. He'll be dead before the summer's end. There's no way he'll be able to destroy all our fakes, let alone the originals, before then."

Everything was still for a moment, until he felt the strangest feeling - which he realized a moment later was pure elation.

And then he really did vomit.

* * *

Harry could feel the disgust radiating from Tom as he vanished the mess on the floor, but couldn't bring himself to care as he transfigured a cup from one of his notebooks and muttered, " _Aguamenti."_

Immediately gulping down the water, he wiped his mouth and sank to the ground.

"Anyway," he went on, as though nothing had happened, "From what I've heard from my contact at the _Daily Prophet,_ things at the Ministry have been a little hectic, what with Voldemort's return and the massive willfully-accidental cover up that's going on. As I said though, haven't heard a peep from Voldemort, or his minions, so all's quiet on the western front, it seems."

 _Hmmm..._ Tom mused, _Fascinating. Very, very fascinating._

"Yup. So...are you going to tell me how we're going to convince the whole world that Voldemort _is_ alive and that their entire focus should be on him while we...do our thing...?"

Harry could hear a grin in Tom's voice as he responded. _Not at all, Harry. Quite the contrary in fact._

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

 _I have determined that the current situation is, in fact, to our advantage._

"Oh god."

 _Our goal is no longer to thwart my Master Soul's plans - that ship has sailed; we have passed the point of no return. No, we will allow Wizarding Britain to crumble in a maelstrom of its own making - of confusion, ignorance, and folly. And from the ashes we shall rise._

"Once Voldemort's in full power and Dumbledore's dead and there's no one to protect us?" Harry asked incredulously.

Harry could feel Tom's grin growing. _Not quite. I believe it is time we broaden our horizons - raise the stakes, if you will._

"I still don't understand."

 _Tell me, Harry, if all the great powers of Wizarding Europe - Germany, Scandinavia, France, and Russia - rallied against Great Britain, who do you think would decisively come out on top?_

Harry pursed his lips. "Well...all of continental Europe was pretty much decimated during Grindelwald's time, from a military perspective, at least. However, Great Britain maintained a fairly isolationist foreign policy at the time, so our system was pretty intact. Even the threat of Voldemort didn't encourage the Ministry to risk their full military power...not that they really could have since Voldemort's tactics were largely terrorist - we're actually in pretty good shape, from what Sirius tells me. So, considering that there is a higher concentration of witches and wizards in Britain, not to mention that Germany and Russia wouldn't work together if you paid them, I'd have to say it would be close, but we would have a fighting chance."

 _Even after Voldemort completely destabilizes our military, government, and society?_

Harry was silent for a moment, before his jaw dropped. "You want to commit treason!"

 _Don't be so dramatic -_

"You want to fuck off -"

 _Language._

"- to the continent, let Voldemort take over, and then convince the rest of the European sector of the ICW to declare war on Great Britain, and then take over all of Europe!"

 _Precisely._

Harry buried his head in his hands. "This is...this is...too much Tom. How the - how do we -"

 _It will require a great deal of careful maneuvering, but rest assured, events have been working in our favour thus far. Just focus on your little campaign to get rid of this wretched cunt Umbridge -_

"Language," Harry muttered half-heartedly.

 _\- for now._

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it again, and sighed. "Fine."

What the hell was he getting himself into now?

* * *

Harry tried his best to look, well, normal, when he sat down at his usual place by Theo, Tracey, and Daphne.

"About time," Tracey said as soon as she saw him. "We've - are you ok?"

"Probably," Harry said unsuredly.

Theo immediately placed his hand on Harry's forehead, grimacing right after. "You're covered in sweat."

"I….ate too much chocolate last night, vomited this morning, fell asleep at the toilet, and ran here," Harry deadpanned.

Everyone was silent, and looked a little horrified.

Tracey's expression cleared first, though. "Anyway, we've been waiting for your...input."

 _It's nice that they care_ so much, Tom said blithely.

Harry frowned. "Input?"

"Yes, on what you think will be on today's Potions quiz."

Harry shrugged, quickly dishing some porridge onto his plate. "Who knows?"

Tracey rolled her eyes. "You, if anyone. Rumour has it that you're on Professor Snape's good side again."

 _Leeches,_ Tom muttered good-naturedly. Harry figured he was still quite pleased about the news of Professor Dumbledore's impending demise.

Harry glanced at her disinterestedly. "Oh."

Tracey huffed. "It stands to reason, then, that since you're literally the only student in the whole school on his good side, that if anyone knows anything _special_ about the curriculum, it would be you. And since even Theo doesn't know what you spoke about last week when you stayed behind after class..." she trailed off.

Harry glanced at Theo. "Oh."

He had, of course, told Theo. He'd approached Professor Snape to learn more about Dolores Umbridge - after looking at the Hogwarts student records, he'd determined that the two professors were in Slytherin House together, and since Theo was the only other person privy to his and Hermione's plot, it was natural that he knew the results of the conversation, which were meagre, at best.

The biggest thing he'd gleaned from it was the fact that no one had ever liked Dolores Umbridge much at all. Which really wasn't all that surprising, by now.

Meanwhile, Tracey and Daphne both stared at them for a moment, before looking outraged.

"He _did_ tell you!" Daphne said suddenly, "You said you had no idea!"

"Of course he did," Tracey said. "I told you we shouldn't have believed him."

"I tell Theo everything," Harry supplied.

Theo groaned. "Great, thanks, Harry - now whenever they want to know something you know, they're just gonna come after me."

"Why?"

"Because you're a tight-lipped bastard."

"Everyone knows that," Tracey put in.

Daphne scowled at both of them. "Harry is _not_ a bastard."

"I'm really not," Harry said tiredly, before reaching for the newspaper sitting beside a large bowl of scrambled eggs.

Plastered on the front page was the _last_ person he had wanted to see: Dolores Umbridge.

 _MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM_

 _DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER "HIGH INQUISITOR"_

"Bloody hell," Harry whispered. "Have you three seen this bullshit?"

Theo looked over his shoulder and grimaced. "Nope. Didn't want to, either. I was happy in my ignorance. At peace, you might say."

"What does it say?" Tracey asked eagerly.

Harry read the title aloud.

"And?" Tracey went on with a gleam in her eyes.

Harry sighed, and began to read, " _In a surprise move last night the Ministry of Magic passed new legislation giving itself an unprecedented level of control at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

"' _The Minister has been growing uneasy about goings-on at Hogwarts for some time,' said Junior Assistant to the Minister, Percy Weasley. 'He is now responding to concerns voiced by anxious parents who feel the school may be moving in a direction they do not approve.'_

' _This is not the first time in recent weeks Fudge has used new laws to effect improvements at the Wizarding school. As recently as August 30th Educational Decree Twenty-two was passed, to ensure that, in the event of the current headmaster being unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the Ministry should select an appropriate person._

"' _That's how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed to the teaching staff at Hogwarts,' said Weasley last night. 'Dumbledore couldn't find anyone, so the Minister put in Umbridge and of course, she's been an immediate success -'"_

Theo snorted.

"' _\- totally revolutionizing the teaching of Defence against the Dark Arts and providing the Minister with on-the-ground feedback about what's really happening at Hogwarts.'"_

"So...in other words, she's Fudge's spy," Tracey drawled.

" _It is this last function that the Ministry has now formalized with the passing of Educational Decree Twenty-three, which creates the new position of 'Hogwarts High Inquisitor.'_

"' _This is an exciting new phase in the Minister's plan to get to grips with what some are calling the "falling standards" at Hogwarts,' said Weasley. 'The Inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure that they are coming up to scratch. Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in addition to her own teaching post, and we are delighted to say that she has accepted.'_

" _The Ministry's new moves have received enthusiastic support from parents of students at Hogwarts._

"' _I feel much easier in my mind now that I know that Dumbledore is being subjected to fair and objective evaluation,' said Mr. Lucius Malfoy, 41, speaking from his Wiltshire mansion last night. 'Many of us with our children's best interests at heart have been concerned about some of Dumbledore's eccentric decisions in the last few years and will be glad to know that the Ministry is keeping an eye on the situation.'_

" _Among those 'eccentric decisions' are undoubtedly the controversial staff appointments previously described in this newspaper, which have included the hiring of werewolf Remus Lupin, half giant Rubeus Hagrid, and delusional ex-Auror 'Mad-Eye' Moody._

" _Rumours abound, of course, that Albus Dumbledore, once Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of Wizengamot, is no longer up to the task of managing the prestigious school of Hogwarts._

"' _I think the appointment of the Inquisitor is a first step toward ensuring that Hogwarts has a headmaster in whom we can all repose confidence,' said a Ministry insider last night._

" _Wizengamot elders Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden have resigned in protest at the introduction of the post of Inquisitor to Hogwarts._

"' _Hogwarts is a school, not an outpost of Cornelius Fudge's office,' said Madame Marchbanks. 'This is a further disgusting attempt to discredit Albus Dumbledore',"_ Harry finished, before adding, "The rest is on page seventeen, but I don't think I can bring myself to turn even a single page."

"What a load of horse-shit!" Daphne exclaimed gleefully.

"To say the least," Harry muttered.

Theo's head was in his hands. "What the bloody hell is happening? Is this that apocalypse thing you were talking about?"

Harry thought about it for a moment, but then shook his head. "No, it isn't."

"Are you sure?"

"...maybe."

"It's like….an Umbpocalypse….or an apocabridge."

Harry stared at him in horror.

"I'm - I'm so sorry. I think that article broke my brain."

"Fair."

* * *

"Thank you, everyone, for coming. I would have completely understood if the most recent issue of the _Daily Prophet_ had forced you into a fit of hysteria that sent you off the side of the Astronomy Tower."

 _Projecting?_ Tom drawled.

"I have to admit, I came close," Hermione said evenly.

Harry chuckled awkwardly. "Yes, well, we're all glad you didn't quite get there." He cleared his throat. "Now, today -"

"Actually, I would like to...propose something," Hermione spoke up again.

Harry's eyebrows rose, and he stepped aside. "Oh, sure, I love propositions."

Tracey and Michael both whistled loudly.

"Ooh! Ooh! I've got one!" Daphne said gleefully.

Hermione glared at the three of them as she walked to where Harry had been standing, before she straightened her back and folded her hands in front of her. "Some of our newer members might not be aware of the strong moral foundations of this group," she began.

 _Oh, this is going to be_ _entertaining,_ Tom commented.

" _Moral_ foundations?" Michael interjected, "Isn't this a _study club_?"

Harry stared at Hermione warningly, and she glanced at him quickly, pleadingly, before answering, "It is...but it was formed for a very specific purpose - specifically, we officially started studying together after Professor Quirrell tried to kill Harry."

At that declaration, everyone went still, and the atmosphere of the room distinctly shifted.

"We formed this group because we thought that what we were being taught in class was not sufficient preparation for the real world - we felt that our teachers were keeping from us certain kinds of knowledge that they felt were not appropriate, even though this knowledge can be the difference between life and death, as it has been several times for Harry." She paused, and took a breath. "This educational crisis has now become even more dire. With Umbridge gaining more and more control over the school, there is a distinct probability that not a single one of the younger generations of Hogwarts students will graduate knowing how to defend themselves. And this is not acceptable."

"Soooo….we're getting rid of Umbridge, right?" Michael said.

Hermione sighed. "No, Michael, we're not 'getting rid' of anyone -"

Harry's lips quirked upward. He never thought he'd see the day where Hermione lied reflexively.

"- but we can't do _nothing._ The other day Harry pointed out to Theo and I that nobody is learning History of Magic, and suggested that we should start a school-wide study club for History of Magic."

Tom laughed at that.

Tracey snorted. "Good luck getting people to attend."

"Exactly, and the solution for this conundrum was left undiscovered."

"Well…" Theo said musingly.

"It was," Hermione interjected firmly. "But that got me thinking, this morning, that we should do the same for Defence against the Dark Arts! Umbridge isn't going to teach us anything practical, and that won't matter to the eight of us - we're learning everything we need to know about defence right here. On that note, though, I think we should be more diligent in making sure _all_ our members can cast the counter-spell to every spell they learn."

"Duly noted," Harry said.

"Anyway, what I'm getting at, is that we have a moral responsibility to aid our classmates in their Defence education; it isn't fair that the eight of us are learning to defend ourselves while everyone else suffers under the tutelage of teachers like Quirrell, Lockhart, and now Umbridge. We have to help."

 _What a curious opportunity,_ Tom mused.

Harry was hard pressed to keep an alarmed look off his face. Opportunity? What did Tom want him to do now?

"You want to expand," Theo said flatly, clearly unhappy.

"I feel like we have to," Hermione returned, staring at him pleadingly.

"Well," Harry cut in, "I think that's completely impractical -"

 _No, it isn't,_ Tom interrupted inside his head, _This is the perfect opportunity to extend your influence over the students of Hogwarts. No need to teach the dark arts - not overtly, anyway...just teach them enough to make you the best teacher they've ever had._

Theo sighed in relief, but Hermione looked indignant.

"But -"

"Expansion, I mean," Harry clarified, backpedalling, though still doubtful that he should be going along with Tom's risky plan. "The extensive security measures I designed in order to create a safe environment for us to learn whatever we felt important are not scalable."

 _No matter,_ Tom said dismissively, _As I said, you won't be doing anything_ wrong _\- your actions would be considered commendable by most, if anything._

"But -"

"I'm not saying I disagree with you, Hermione," Harry interrupted. "I just think we should design a whole new group with different security measures and different curriculum, if we all agree if this is the direction we're taking."

"Well, I, for one, don't want to limit my learning," Michael said, "I was skeptical about learning some more...questionable spells, at first, but I've become very invested in what we're learning, and I don't want to stop to give everyone a chance to get ahead."

"And you won't have to - we'll just meet twice a week: once for duelling and once for a more...inclusive study group."

Michael was silent for a moment. "Yes, I think I'd be ok with that."

Hermione smiled at him. "Excellent. Now, I'll start spreading the word in Gryffindor about a group that will meet...let's say, Mondays, Michael, you can contact some people you trust in Ravenclaw...I suppose I can talk to some Hufflepuffs as well -"

"I'm good friends with Ernie Macmillan," Terry put in, "I can take care of Hufflepuff."

"Excellent! And perhaps Malfoy can work on recruiting Slytherins -"

"No," Draco said, his voice low and his face hardened. "I won't take that risk."

Hermione frowned. "Risk?"

"If anyone else from Slytherin is joining this new study club, I can't be a part of it."

"Wh-"

"If Draco's parents hear that he's associating with me, they might pull him out of Hogwarts," Harry said grimly.

Hermione's face fell, "Oh, I hadn't thought of that. I'm sorry, Malfoy."

He smiled wryly. "It's fine, just...maybe we should leave out Slytherin for now, until this whole...You-Know-Who thing blows over."

Several nods followed his statement.

"Except, perhaps, Avery," Harry said suddenly.

Hermione frowned. "Avery?"

"I trust him," Harry said quickly, "At least I will, soon." As soon as he discovered what knowledge Avery's father had to threaten him with.

"What the hell does that mean?" Tracey asked skeptically.

"It's need-to-know," Harry said lightly.

"Uh-huh, whatever."

* * *

Duelling practice passed quickly as it had in the past, with, thankfully, no broken bones, abrasions, or otherwise visible injuries. Just as Hermione had requested in passing, Harry did a massive counter-curse catch-up session at the beginning of practice, which went over quite well.

Once their two hours had finished, Harry asked everyone to stay while he quickly spelled several sheets of parchment with a simple secret-keeping oath - effectively identical to the one he had used on his dorm mates in second year, only without the need for the blood of the oath-bearers (a vast improvement that he had developed himself, though basing it off someone else's theory) - and handed them to Hermione, Michael, and Terry. Everyone then left in their usual staggered order - which was changed every week based on the rolling of a pair of dice - leaving, eventually, two students in the room.

"I don't like it," Theo said as he hoisted his book bag over his shoulder.

Harry frowned. "Don't like what?"

"This new...expansion idea."

Harry sighed. "I told you, it's not an expansion, it's a completely separate group."

"I know, but it still presents security risks."

"Which can be mitigated, in much the same way we did when we invited Tracey, Daphne, Michael, and Terry to join our duelling sessions."

"Can they? What happens when every bloody Gryffindor decides they want to be part of this brilliant new defence club? Sure, you can hold them all under oath. But an oath doesn't keep them from being followed here. Then best case scenario our secret meeting place is discovered; worst case scenario, someone is followed by a disillusioned student or teacher right into the Room of Requirement, and they discover what we're doing."

Harry nodded. "And that's a risk I'm willing to take."

"Really?" Theo said doubtfully.

"Really. Even if the worst happens, we won't be doing anything wrong. Sure, I'll teach some dark magic, but nothing terribly advanced or concerning."

"Do you really want everyone knowing you're an expert in even the lightest dark magic out there?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't think it matters anymore. My reputation is already being dragged through the dirt, and that's why this is so important, in fact."

"Why?"

"I need people on my side, Theo. There's a war coming, and I've got, what, seven allies? That's not enough."

"Once everyone realizes that Voldemort is actually back there will be plenty of people on your side."

"On the side against Voldemort, yes, but Voldemort dead isn't all I want, is it? I want to do much, much more than that, and to get what I want I need people to trust me, not just because I'm a symbol of Voldemort's mortality - they need to trust me because I'm _me_."

Theo pursed his lips.

"Theo, I'm human, I make mistakes - but have I made any serious strategic missteps yet? Have I done anything to make you believe that I'm prioritizing anything above what you and I are working towards?"

"No, you haven't," Theo said quietly.

Harry smiled softly. "I need you with me on this, Theo. I can't do this without you."

Theo looked at him resolutely. "And I'm with you all the way."

"To the end?"

"To the end."

"Trust me, this will be a good thing."

"I trust you."

Harry's smile grew. "Excellent. What do you say we head out, then?"

Theo smiled back at him. "Sounds like a plan," he said as he headed for the door.

"You know," a voice said as they exited the Room of Requirement, "I'm always _very_ interested to know what you two are talking about behind everybody's backs."

Harry blinked. "Tracey. Of course you are."

She smiled uneasily, a little manically. "Harry, just the person I wanted to see most!"

He frowned. "I don't feel like that's an appropriate greeting given the circumstances."

"Seconded," Theo put in.

She rolled her eyes in a much more Tracey-like manner. "Theo, get lost. I need Harry."

Theo scowled at her, and then glanced at Harry, who shrugged.

He sighed. "Whatever. See you later, Harry."

After he rounded the corner, Tracey looked at Harry sternly. "I need your help."

"Um, with what?"

"Be my boyfriend."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but then realized he had absolutely nothing to say to that. "Uhhh..."

She huffed. "Look, just come to Hogsmeade with me on Saturdays, carry my book bag in between classes, and snog me in the hallways occasionally. It's not hard. I'm sure even _you_ can manage it."

He stared at her flatly. "I'm flattered by your confidence in my abilities to carry things and...snog."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be offended; I know you're well aware of your rather infamous social awkwardness. You've gotten much better, but you're still far from _normal_."

Harry scowled. "Well if I'm so abnormal, why don't you go look for a better boyfriend?"

Tracey looked immensely pleased with herself. "Well, that's exactly it, isn't it? Normal fifteen-year-old boys are over-sensitive, hormone-drenched brutes with something to prove. They won't date me unless they like me, and if they like me they'll start to have _real_ feelings for me."

"And you think _I_ won't?"

"I know you won't. You're not like that."

Harry frowned at her. "How do you know?"

"Oh _come on._ Daphne is _gorgeous,_ hilarious, and pretty clever, and she's been throwing herself at you since our first year. You've never even blinked at her."

Harry's lips twitched. "Maybe that's because I have someone else."

"You don't."

Harry chuckled. "You're so presumptuous,Tracey."

"I make quick judgments - and my success rate isn't bad all things considered. At least I'm decisive."

"Fair enough."

"So...will you do it?"

"Not until you tell me why."

"Why what?"

"Why you need me to be your fake boyfriend."

"It's none of your business."

"You're _literally_ making it my business, _right now._ "

She sighed. "Fine, but if you tell anyone you're a dead man."

"Sure."

"I need to make Draco jealous."

"...I don't understand."

She rolled her eyes again. "Of course you don't. Listen, I'll spell it out for you: the person I _really_ like is Draco, but he's with Pansy...kind of...even though I _know_ he likes _me._ So I need to make him jealous so he'll have to admit to himself that he likes me and needs to break up with Pansy."

"I….can't help but feel that this is a very ineffective plan."

"Not your problem. Will you do it or not?"

"You'll owe me."

"Fine."

Harry hesitated. "I...have to ask Theo first."

Tracey frowned. "Why would you -" Her eyes widened. "No way!"

Harry shrugged.

"That is _so_ cute."

"Er, I guess so?"

* * *

Twenty-two hours later, Harry found himself in what was becoming a very familiar place: Professor Dumbledore's office.

"Harry, punctual as always," Professor Dumbledore said as Harry stepped through the door.

Harry smiled. "Good evening Professor Dumbledore."

"Good evening, Harry. Please, take a seat."

As Harry did so, he went on, "I suppose you are very curious, as to how you will be assisting me in finding Voldemort's other horcruxes."

"It has crossed my mind over the last week, sir."

Dumbledore smiled. "Well, I apologize for not being especially clear as to what these sessions will entail. In short, I should like us to meet roughly once a month. During these sessions, I will teach you one of two things; either I will impart what knowledge I have of Voldemort and his life, or I will teach you about soul magic - specifically about horcruxes, how they are made and destroyed, and how they can be detected."

Harry frowned slightly. "You told me last week that I will be assisting you in searching for these horcruxes."

"As you will. I hope that you will be able to provide a unique perspective on the knowledge that I share with you. But most importantly - I hope that I can prepare you to finish this task in my absence."

"You mean in the event of your death," Harry clarified.

"The imminent event, yes."

Harry didn't know quite what to say about this.

In the meantime, Professor Dumbledore got to his feet and walked across the room, where he withdrew from an embellished oak cabinet a shallow stone basin, etched with strange runes around its rim. He then carried the basin to his desk and set it down in the middle.

"This," the professor said, gesturing toward the basin, "Is a pensieve."

Harry nodded slowly. "I've never used one, but I'm familiar with the theory behind them."

"Excellent! Now, tonight, we are going down a trip down Bob Ogden's memory lane," Professor Dumbledore said as he produced from his pocket a crystal flask containing a swirling silver-white substance.

"I...don't know who that is."

"He was employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, much like your godfather - only his tenure there was during the nineteen-twenties. He died some time ago, but not before I tracked him down and persuaded him to confide these recollections to me. We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in the course of his duties. If you will stand, Harry…" Professor Dumbledore explained as he fumbled with the stopper of the flask in his hand; he was having difficulty removing it with his cursed hand.

"Shall I, sir?" Harry said.

"No matter, Harry," the professor said as he pointed his wand at the bottle, causing the stopper to fly out. He then poured the silvery substance into the pensieve. "After you."

Harry took a deep breath before plunging his head into the contents of the pensieve, and at once he felt his feet leave the office floor, sending him falling through a whirling darkness - until he was standing on a country lane bordered by high, tangled hedges. A moment later, Professor Dumbledore landed beside him, and smiled up at the bright, unencumbered sun above them, before turning his eyes to the left, where there stood a short, plump man. The man must have been very nearsighted because the glasses he was peering through to read the signpost in front of him made his eyes appear to be small, beady specks.

Immediately upon spotting the man, who was, presumably, Mr. Ogden, Harry coughed a little to disguise a laugh; the man was wearing a frock coat over an old-fashioned one-piece bathing suit. The more witches and wizards he met the more he started to believe that Muggle Studies _should_ be mandatory in the curriculum.

Suddenly, Mr. Ogden was done the apparently strenuous task of reading the small signpost, and set off briskly down the lane. Harry and Dumbledore followed. As they did, Harry looked over his shoulder to see two arrows set upon the post: one for Great Hangleton, 5 miles, pointing behind them, and one for Little Hangleton, 1 mile, pointing toward them.

Harry stifled any reaction he could have had, but if he'd allowed himself his eyes would have widened. It was likely that they were heading to the Gaunt Shack - which explained how Professor Dumbledore knew to look there for the (fake) horcrux.

However, the area around them, which was pretty much limited to two-metre-high hedges, was completely unfamiliar to him, until the path curved to the left and sloped down a steep hillside, causing the travellers to be greeted by an expansive view of Little Hangleton, including the graveyard and Riddle House. The lane then curved to the right and when they rounded the corner, it was to see the edge of Mr. Ogden's coat vanishing through a smallish gap in the hedge. Dumbledore and Harry followed him onto a narrow dirt path bordered by taller and wilder hedges than those they had left behind. The path was crooked, rocky, and potholed, sloping downhill like the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch of dark trees a little below them, where stood the Gaunt Shack amidst a tangle of tree trunks and roots, in all its mossy, decrepit glory. However, something was very different from when Harry had last been there; one of the windows was open and clattering sounds came from the inside, along with a thin wisp of smoke.

Mr. Ogden was now moving forward cautiously, probably having noticed the dead snake nailed to the door, which must have been rather alarming if he didn't know much about the Gaunts.

Then, suddenly, there was a rustle and a crack, and a man in filthy rags dropped down from the nearest tree, landing on his feet right in front of Mr. Ogden, who leapt backward so fast he stood on the tails of his coat and stumbled.

 _:You're not welcome,:_ came the familiar hiss of parseltongue from the rag-clad man. He had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any color, and several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared in opposite directions. He might have looked comical, but he did not; the effect was frightening, and Harry could not blame Mr. Ogden for backing away several more paces before he spoke.

"Er - good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic -"

 _:You're not welcome.:_

"Er - I'm sorry - I don't understand you," Mr. Ogden said nervously.

"Out of curiosity, Harry, what is Morfin saying?"

Harry supposed that Morfin was the man in the rags. "Um, he's saying that Mr. Ogden isn't welcome."

"Ah."

Morfin was now advancing on Mr. Ogden, knife in one hand, wand in the other.

"Now, look -" Mr. Ogden began, only to be interrupted.

There was a bang, and suddenly Mr. Ogden was on the ground, clutching his nose, while a nasty yellowish goo squirted from between his fingers.

"Morfin!" a loud voice called. An elderly man had come hurrying out of the cottage, banging the door behind him so that the dead snake swung limply. This man was shorter than the first, and oddly proportioned; his shoulders were very broad and his arms too long, which, with his bright brown eyes, short scrubby hair, and wrinkled face, gave him the look of a large, aged ape. He came to a halt beside the man with the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground.

"Ministry, is it?" the older man said curiously, looking down at Mr. Ogden.

"Correct!" Mr. Ogden said angrily, dabbing his face. "And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?"

"S'right," Gaunt said. "Got you in the face, did he?"

"Yes, he did!" Mr. Ogden snapped.

"Should've made your presence known, shouldn't you have?" Gaunt said aggressively. "This is private property. Can't just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself."

"Defend himself against what, man?" Mr. Ogden said indignantly, clambering back to his feet.

"Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth."

Mr. Ogden pointed his wand at his own nose, which was still issuing large amounts of what looked like yellow pus, and the flow stopped at once.

Gaunt then spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin. _:Get in the house. Don't argue.:_

Morfin seemed to be at the point of disagreeing, but when his father cast him a threatening look he changed his mind, lumbering away to the cottage with an odd rolling gait and slamming the front door behind him, so that the snake swung sadly again.

"It's your son I'm here to see, Mr. Gaunt," Mr. Ogden said, as he mopped the last of the pus from the front of his coat. "That was Morfin, wasn't it?"

"Ar, that was Morfin," the old man drawled indifferently. "Are you pure-blood?" he asked, his tone suddenly aggressive.

"That's neither here nor there," Mr. Ogden returned coldly.

Gaunt scowled at him. "Now I come to think about it, I've seen noses like yours down in the village."

"I don't doubt it, if your son's been let loose on them," Mr. Ogden said, disgruntled. "Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside?"

"Inside?"

Mr. Ogden sighed. "Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I've already told you. I'm here about Morfin. We sent an owl -"

"I've no use for owls," Gaunt said, proudly, "I don't open letters."

"Then you can hardly complain that you get no warning of visitors," Mr. Ogden retorted. "I am here following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which occurred here in the early hours of this morning -"

"All right, all right, all right!" Gaunt bellowed suddenly. "Come in the bleeding house, then, and much good it'll do you!"

Gaunt and Mr. Ogden, followed by Harry and Dumbledore, entered the small hovel, which seemed to consist of three tiny rooms. Two doors led off the main room, which served as kitchen and living room combined. Morfin was sitting in a filthy armchair beside the smoking fire, twisting a live adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at it in Parseltongue:

 _:Hissy, hissy, little snakey,:  
_ _:Slither on the floor,:  
_ _:You be good to Morfin:  
_ _:Or he'll nail you to the door.:_

Harry felt a spike of sympathy for the poor adder, who looked very uncomfortable.

There was a scuffling noise in the corner beside the open window, and Harry realized that there was somebody else in the room, a girl whose ragged gray dress was the exact color of the dirty stone wall behind her. She was standing beside a steaming pot on a wood-burning stove, and was fiddling around with the shelf of squalid looking pots and pans above it. Her hair was lank and dull and she had a plain, pale, rather heavy face. Her eyes, like Morfin's, stared in opposite directions. She looked a little cleaner than the two men, but Harry thought he had never seen a more defeated looking person.

"M'daughter, Merope," said Gaunt grudgingly, as Mr. Ogden looked inquiringly toward her.

Again, Harry had to stifle his reaction - this sad-looking girl was Tom's mother.

"Good morning," Mr. Ogden greeted.

She did not answer, but with a frightened glance at her father turned her back on the room and continued shifting the pots on the shelf behind her.

"Well, Mr. Gaunt," Mr. Ogden began, "To get straight to the point, we have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night."

There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped one of the pots.

"Pick it up!" Gaunt bellowed at her. "That's it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle, what's your wand for, you useless sack of muck?"

"Mr. Gaunt, please!" Mr. Ogden exclaimed in a shocked voice, as Merope, who had already picked up the pot, flushed scarlet, lost her grip on the pot again, drew her wand shakily from her pocket, pointed it at the pot, and muttered a hasty, inaudible spell that caused the pot to shoot across the floor away from her, hit the opposite wall, and crack in two.

Morfin let out a mad cackle of laughter.

"Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!" Gaunt screeched.

Merope stumbled across the room, but before she had time to raise her wand, Mr. Ogden had raised his own and said firmly, " _Reparo."_

The pot mended itself instantly.

Gaunt looked for a moment as though he was going to shout at Mr. Ogden, but seemed to think better of it; instead, he just jeered at his daughter, "Lucky the nice man from the Ministry's here, isn't it? Perhaps he'll take you off my hands, perhaps he doesn't mind dirty Squibs."

Without looking at anybody or thanking Mr. Ogden, Merope picked up the pot and returned it, hands trembling, to its shelf. She then stood quite still, her back against the wall between the filthy window and the stove, as though she wished for nothing more than to sink into the stone and vanish.

"Mr. Gaunt," Mr. Ogden began again, "As I've said: the reason for my visit -"

"I heard you the first time!" Gaunt snapped. "And so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming to him - what about it, then?"

"Morfin has broken Wizarding law," Mr. Ogden said sternly.

"'Morfin has broken Wizarding law.'" Gaunt repeated mockingly.

Morfin cackled again.

"He taught a filthy Muggle a lesson, that's illegal now, is it?"

"Yes!" Mr. Ogden answered. "I'm afraid it is." He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of parchment and unrolled it.

"What's that, then, his sentence?" Gaunt said, his voice rising angrily.

"It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing -"

"Summons! _Summons?_ Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?"

"I'm Head of a Magical Law Enforcement Squad."

"And you think we're scum, do you?" Gaunt shouted, advancing on Mr. Ogden now, with a yellow, dirty, over-grown fingernail pointing at his chest. "Scum who'll come running when the Ministry tells 'em to? Do you know who you're talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?"

"I was under the impression that I was speaking to Mr. Gaunt," Mr. Ogden said, looking wary, but standing his ground.

"That's right!" Gaunt roared. He then stuck his middle finger in the air to display the Gaunt family ring. "See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?"

Harry's eyebrows rose. Mr. Gaunt may have been out of touch with reality, but he sure knew his history.

"I've really no idea," Mr. Ogden said, blinking as the ring being waved about within an inch of his nose, "And it's quite beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed -"

With a howl of rage, Gaunt ran toward his daughter, before dragging her toward Mr. Ogden by a gold chain around her neck. "See this?" he bellowed at Mr. Ogden, shaking a heavy gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and gasped for breath.

"I see it, I see it!" Ogden shouted hastily.

"Slytherin's!" Gaunt yelled. "Salazar Slytherin's! We're his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?"

"Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!" Mr Ogden cried in alarm, but Gaunt had already released Merope; she staggered away from him, back to her corner, massaging her neck and gasping for air.

"So!" Gaunt said triumphantly, as though he had proved his point beyond all possible doubt. "Don't you go talking to us as if we're dirt on your shoes! Generations of purebloods, wizards all - more than you can say, I don't doubt!" And he spat on the floor at Ogden's feet.

Morfin cackled again.

"Mr. Gaunt," Mr. Ogden said, clearly trying to keep exasperation out of his voice, "I am afraid that neither your ancestors nor mine have anything to do with the matter in hand. I am here because of Morfin, Morfin and the Muggle he accosted late last night. Our information" - he glanced down at his scroll of parchment - "is that Morfin performed a jinx or hex on the said Muggle, causing him to erupt in highly painful hives."

Morfin giggled.

 _:Be quiet, boy,:_ Gaunt snarled in Parseltongue, and Morfin fell silent again.

"And so what if he did, then?" Gaunt said defiantly to Mr. Ogden. "I expect you've wiped the Muggle's filthy face clean for him, and his memory to boot -"

"That's hardly the point, is it, Mr. Gaunt?" Mr. Ogden said. "This was an unprovoked attack on a defenseless -"

"Ar, I had you marked out as a Muggle-lover the moment I saw you," Gaunt sneered, and he spat on the floor again.

"This discussion is getting us nowhere," Mr. Ogden said firmly. "It is clear from your son's attitude that he feels no remorse for his actions." He glanced down at his scroll of parchment again. "Morfin will attend a hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and causing harm and distress to that same Mugg-" Mr. Ogden broke off.

The jingling, clopping sounds of horses and loud, laughing voices were drifting in through the open window. Apparently the winding lane to the village passed very close to the place where the shack stood.

Gaunt froze, listening, his eyes wide. Morfin hissed and turned his face toward the sounds, his expression hungry. Merope raised her head. Her face went starkly white.

"My God, what an eyesore!" a girl's voice rang out, clearly audible through the open window. "Couldn't your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?"

"It's not ours," the voice of a young man answered. "Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his children. The son's quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village -"

The girl laughed.

Morfin made to get out of his armchair.

 _:Keep your seat,:_ said his father warningly.

"Tom," said the girl's voice again, now so close they were clearly right beside the house, "I might be wrong - but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?"

Harry's eyes widened. Could it be Tom's father?

"Good lord, you're right!" said the man's voice. "That'll be the son, I told you he's not right in the head. Don't look at it, Cecilia, darling."

The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing fainter again.

 _:'Darling,'_ : Morfin whispered, looking at his sister. _:'Darling,' he called her. So he wouldn't have you anyway.:_

"Harry, would you mind translating?" Professor Dumbledore spoke up.

"Morfin just pointed out that the man on the horse called his female companion 'Darling', so he wouldn't be interested in Merope," He said, not taking his eyes off Merope, who was so white Harry felt sure she was going to faint.

 _:What's that?:_ Gaunt said sharply, looking from his son to his daughter. _:What did you say, Morfin?:_

 _:She likes looking at that Muggle,:_ Morfin said, a vicious expression on his face as he stared at his sister, who now looked terrified. _:Always in the garden when he passes, peering through the hedge at him, isn't she? And last night -:_ Merope shook her head jerkily, imploringly, but Morfin went on ruthlessly, : _Hanging out of the window waiting for him to ride home, wasn't she?:_

Harry continued to translate, "He's saying that Merope likes to watch the muggle outside when he's passing by and last night she was 'hanging out the window' waiting for him."

 _:Hanging out of the window to look at a Muggle?_ : Gaunt said quietly.

All three of the Gaunts seemed to have forgotten Mr. Ogden, who was looking both bewildered and irritated at this renewed outbreak of incomprehensible hissing and rasping.

 _:Is it true?:_ Gaunt said in a deadly voice, advancing several steps toward the terrified girl. _:My daughter - pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin - hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?:_

"Mr. Gaunt is trying to clarify that his pure-blood daughter is lusting after a muggle," Harry continued.

Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself into the wall, apparently unable to speak.

 _:But I got him, Father!:_ Morfin cackled. _:I got him as he went by and he didn't look so pretty with hives all over him, did he, Merope?:_

"Morfin's admitting his guilt -"

 _:You disgusting little Squib, you filthy little blood traitor!:_ Gaunt roared, losing control, as his hands closed around his daughter's throat.

Instantly, Mr. Ogden shouted "No!", before raising his wand and crying, " _Relashio!"_

Gaunt was thrown backward, away from his daughter, and he tripped over a chair and fell flat on his back.

With a roar of rage, Morfin leapt out of his chair and ran at Mr. Ogden, brandishing his bloody knife and firing hexes indiscriminately from his wand, chasing Mr. Ogden out of the house.

Dumbledore indicated that they ought to follow and Harry obeyed, Merope's screams ringing in his ears. Meanwhile, Mr. Ogden scrambled up the path and onto the main lane, his arms over his head, where he collided with the glossy chestnut horse ridden by a very handsome, dark-haired young man - who looked almost identical to Tom in his earlier years, confirming Harry's earlier theory. Both he and the pretty girl riding beside him on a gray horse roared with laughter at the sight of Mr. Ogden, who bounced off the horse's flank and set off again, his frock coat fluttering behind, covered from head to foot in dust.

"I think that will do, Harry," Professor Dumbledore said, taking Harry by the elbow and tugging. The next moment, they were both soaring weightlessly through darkness, until they landed squarely on their feet, back in Professor Dumbledore's now twilit office.

"Ogden just _left_?" Harry asked incredulously, as Dumbledore lit a few extra lamps with a flick of his wand. "What about the girl in the cottage?"

"Oh, she survived," said Professor Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk and indicating that Harry should sit as well. "Ogden apparated back to the Ministry and returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subsequently convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry employees in addition to Ogden, received six months."

"Was that Voldemort's family then?" Harry asked.

"That's right," Professor Dumbledore answered, smiling in approval. "I am glad to see you're keeping up."

"That old man was-?"

"Voldemort's grandfather, yes," Professor Dumbledore interjected. "Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope, were the last of the Gaunts, a very ancient Wizarding family noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense coupled with a great liking for grandeur meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter."

"So Merope," Harry said, "She was Voldemort's mother."

"Precisely," Professor Dumbledore confirmed. "And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort's father, as I am sure you noticed."

"The man on the horse; Tom Riddle Senior, I suppose."

 _Scum,_ Tom hissed.

"Very good indeed," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Yes, that was Tom Riddle senior, the handsome Muggle who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for whom Merope Gaunt cherished a secret, burning passion."

"So….how did that happen? Love potion? Imperius curse?"

"Very good. Personally, I am inclined to think that she used a love potion. I am sure it would have seemed more romantic to her, and I do not think it would have been very difficult, some hot day, when Riddle was riding alone, to persuade him to take a drink of water. In any case, within a few months of the scene we have just witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire's son ran off with the tramp's daughter, Merope.

"But the villagers' shock was nothing to Marvolo's. He returned from Azkaban, expecting to find his daughter dutifully awaiting his return with a hot meal ready on his table. Instead, he found a clear inch of dust and her note of farewell, explaining what she had done.

"From all that I have been able to discover, he never mentioned her name or existence from that time forth. The shock of her desertion may have contributed to his early death - or perhaps he had simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see Morfin return to the cottage."

"And Merope?"

"We must do a certain amount of guessing here, although I do not think it is difficult to deduce what happened. You see, within a few months of their runaway marriage, Tom Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little Hangleton without his wife. The rumor flew around the neighborhood that he was talking of being 'hoodwinked' and 'taken in.' What he meant, I am sure, is that he had been under an enchantment that had now lifted, though I daresay he did not dare use those precise words for fear of being thought insane. When they heard what he was saying, however, the villagers guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, pretending that she was going to have his baby, and that he had married her for this reason."

"And she did."

"But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant."

"Ah."

"Again, this is guesswork," Professor Dumbledore went on, "But I believe that Merope, who was deeply in love with her husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by magical means. I believe that she made the choice to stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she was, she had convinced herself that he would by now have fallen in love with her in return. Perhaps she thought he would stay for the baby's sake. If so, she was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her again, and never troubled to discover what became of his son."

Harry was silent for a moment. "Merope's actions were unconscionable, but to leave your pregnant wife or unborn son...he must have been quite heartless."

"Or afraid."

"I suppose."

Professor Dumbledore smiled sadly. "Any other thoughts, Harry?"

"This is how you found the ring?"

"Indeed. Yes, this is how I was able to track down Voldemort's second horcrux - along with another memory which I will show you next time."

"I have time now."

Professor Dumbledore shook his head. "No, I would rather you ruminate on what you have learned tonight."

Harry nodded slowly. "Alright. I suppose it's goodnight, then."

"Goodnight Harry - sleep well."

* * *

Once Harry left Professor Dumbledore's office, he made for the owlery; he'd written a letter to Sirius the the day before that he'd forgotten to mail it, and thought it best to do so now, with the concept of family still on his mind.

As he rounded the corner away from the office, Tom spoke up.

 _As unfortunate as it is that he intends to teach us what we already know, at the very least this gives us a chance to find out what_ he _knows._

"And the chance to learn about soul magic from a light magic perspective," Harry added in quietly.

 _Which will prove fascinating at the very least,_ Tom admitted.

"I think it will be much more than fascinating. Professor Dumbledore has been around for more than a century - it's likely that he knows things that even you don't know."

 _Possibly,_ Tom said noncommittally.

By then, Harry had reached the stairs of the owlery. "You know, I almost feel bad about him putting in so much effort into finding them, when they're all fakes."

 _That's completely absurd._

"Is it? These are the last months of his life - shouldn't he spend them on something worthwhile?" Harry asked as he opened the door to the owlery, pleased to find it dark and empty.

 _He's had plenty of time for that._

"I suppose so," Harry mumbled, as he fastened his letter onto Clarence's leg.

"So you talk to them too?"

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin, and whipped around so fast it almost made him dizzy.

It was Avery, sitting almost unnoticeably in the corner.

"Avery! What are you doing here so late?" Harry asked breathlessly, lowering the wand he had drawn on instinct.

"Waiting for a letter," he said tiredly.

"Ah," Harry said, tucking his wand away. "Clarence, take this to Sirius Black, please." His eyes drifted back toward Avery as the owl took off into the night. "It must be an important letter."

"What?"

"The letter you're waiting for. You can't receive it at breakfast tomorrow morning?"

Avery sighed, a little annoyed. "Is nosiness your natural state, Potter?"

"Probably," Harry admitted with a shrug. "I can tell you why I'm here so late."

"I really don't care to know."

Harry shrugged again, before sitting down across from Avery. "Have you thought about my offer at all?"

"I have," Avery replied evenly.

"And?"

"And...I might just require assistance. Not for me in particular - I..."

Avery fell silent, but Harry felt it best not to press.

"I can take care of myself just fine, Potter."

Harry sighed.

"But my sister can't."

Harry frowned.

"She's not safe, where she is right now, and I'm sure that...if the Department of Magical Family and Child Services were to monitor my parents' residence...that they might find it appropriate to place her somewhere safe, and perhaps...you or your godfather might be able to ensure that."

Harry's eyes widened. "Of course. I'll write the letter tomorrow."

Avery nodded slowly. "Thank you, Potter."

"Not at all, Jordan."

* * *

' _So...I have something to ask you about',_ Harry wrote in his notebook, on Theo's page, once he settled into bed.

He saw Theo turn over in his bed, and pull out his own notebook.

'' _Is it urgent? I was almost asleep.'_

' _It is, a bit. Don't know if I'll be able to sleep if it's not resolved. It's about what Tracey wanted to speak with me about…'_

' _Oh, and what was that?'_

' _She wants me to be her fake boyfriend.'_

He heard Theo snort in his bed.

' _Does she now?'_

' _Apparently she needs to make Draco jealous.'_

' _Of course she does.'_

' _What do you mean by that?'_

' _They've been flirting since the Yule Ball, haven't you noticed?'_

' _Not really.'_

' _Well they have, and Pansy's not as dense as you. Why do you think she's a prefect this year and not Tracey? She stopped hanging out with Tracey and Daphne and started paying attention to school. Her grades have gotten a lot better.'_

' _How do you_ know _all this?'_

' _A combination of keen observational skills and not having my head up my arse.'_

' _Are you saying I have my head up my arse?'_

' _You're a little self-obsessed, Harry.'_

' _Fine, whatever.'_

' _Point for Theo.'_

' _In all seriousness though, is this ok with you? I mean, we're kind of…'_

' _Do you like her? Tracey?'_

' _I mean, she's...nice…'_

' _Do you have feelings for her? Do you want to be her boyfriend?'_

' _Not really.'_

' _Then why are you asking about it?'_

' _She agreed to owe me. Tracey has the makings of a great reporter - I have a feeling she'll be influential in the press one day...and I think she thinks so too. I'm going to have her sign a contract in my notebook. I'll be her boyfriend until either she calls it off or one of us leaves Hogwarts, and in return she'll owe me an unspecified favour that cannot lead to her death, injury, or loss of employment.'_

Theo paused. ' _Sometimes I really wonder what the fuck is wrong with you.'_

' _So...can I do it?'_

' _We're not dating, Harry. I appreciate you asking but my permission really isn't necessary. Especially if this is all a ruse.'_

Harry knew Theo well enough to know that this statement was not without some resentment. ' _We're not dating...but we're partners in a way. Your opinion matters to me, and what you want matters more to me than anything Tracey could offer.'_

' _Then that settles it.'_

' _...ok.'_

' _Goodnight Harry.'_

' _Goodnight Theo.'_

' _Have fun dreaming about snogging Tracey.'_

' _Yuck.'_

' _I know, right?'_

* * *

See you in a couple of weeks!


	23. The Curious Case of Jordan Avery

**AN:** I am repeatedly being asked if this is slash. I will reiterate now that I don't plan on adding any sexual or extensive romantic content. 'Pairings' are not strictly straight but it's complicated (i.e., Harry is asexual, has a special bond with Theo, and is fake-dating Tracey). Those are the facts. Period. I don't think anything else is relevant.

* * *

 **Chapter 22: The Curious Case of Jordan Avery**

 _September 14, 1995_

 _Dear Mr. Fletcher,_

 _We met during a very turbulent time in my life, but I remember our meeting of June 1994 very clearly; I remember being comforted by your sympathy and understanding, and being grateful for your help, which is why I feel I can trust you alone with this request. I hope that I am not overstepping my bounds._

 _It has come to my attention that there may be another child in need as I was; her name is Charlotte Avery. She is ten years old and lives with her parents, and that is all I know. If you could discretely investigate her situation with as much urgency as possible I would greatly appreciate it._

 _Sincerely,  
_ _Harry Potter_

* * *

 _September 17, 1995_

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _Thank you for contacting me, and I hope you are well. I want to say firstly that you once again have my greatest sympathies for what occurred three months ago, and that I am one of many at the Ministry who believe you have no reason to lie about what occurred. Believe me when I say there are more of us than the Daily Prophet would have you believe._

 _In any case, I will send an agent on Monday to observe the residence of Miss Charlotte Avery. I will inform you of any non-confidential results of our investigation._

 _Best,  
_ _Andrew Fletcher_

* * *

 _September 18, 1995_

 _Dear Mr. Fletcher,_

 _Thank you for your faith, and for taking action on this matter. I eagerly await news of your investigation._

 _Thank you again,  
_ _Harry Potter_

* * *

 _September 21, 1995_

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_

 _I regret to inform you that we were too late. Charlotte Avery passed away yesterday morning. I am taking a significant risk by telling you this, but...it was suicide. I'm afraid I can say no more than that._

 _I'm sorry that -_

* * *

Harry couldn't read anymore. He slowly folded the letter and placed it in his robe pocket, his eyes drifting across the Slytherin table to where Avery sat; he too was reading a letter - and though his face was expressionless, his skin was deathly white.

"Fuck."

"Hello _dear_ , what's got you all foul-mouthed and smouldery-eyed this morning?"

"Not now, Tracey."

Theo snickered, and Harry turned to glare at him, which sobered him up immediately.

Theo carefully placed a hand on his shoulder. "Is...everything ok?"

Harry crumpled the letter in his hand, glancing from Avery, to Umbridge, to Professor Dumbledore's withered hand, shaking his head. "When was the last time _anything_ was ok, Theo?"

"Good point," Theo muttered.

* * *

The day flew by in a blur; Harry wasn't quite sure what classes he went to, or who he talked to - it was just one of those days that seemed to teeter on the edge of existence. He chatted amiably but absently with his classmates and performed as stellar as usual in class - this he knew - but beyond that...it was a hazy progression of events that would largely remain unaccounted for. Once night fell his mind came alive again, and he was left wondering what he could have done differently, what had transpired the day before, and what...could have prompted a 10 year old girl to take her own life.

Then again, what could have prompted a 4 year old boy to try to take his own life?

" _It's ok, Aunt Petunia. There's a place for everyone in heaven."_

" _What are you afraid of?"_

" _Life."_

" _And why are you afraid of life?"_

" _Because it hurts."_

" _Let's play a game, sweetheart."_

" _Trust me."_

" _Trust me."_

Harry sighed and held up his right hand to stare at the ring on his middle finger, eyes tracing the distinct etching of the symbol of the deathly hallows. He rolled over and groaned.

* * *

Harry moaned as he stared at the stack of pancakes in front of him, feeling too nauseous to even think of attempting to devour them.

"You have to eat," Theo pointed out on his right side.

"Yes dear, you need to continue to grow big and strong," Tracey said on his left with a very amused smile on her face.

Harry was about to face-plant into his pancakes when an owl he recognized as Cranberry - or rather, Aldred - swooped down over the Slytherin table, dropping a letter onto his pancakes.

Frowning as he picked up the letter, Harry scanned the Hall, searching for any sign of Jordan Avery - truth be told, he hadn't seen the boy since the day before; he'd left the Slytherin table during breakfast after receiving some mail from the very same owl, and disappeared thereafter.

Curious, Harry gingerly opened the little envelope, finding a small, unfolded piece of parchment inside.

 _Thanks anyway._

 _-J. A._

It would have appeared cryptic to anyone else, but Harry knew exactly what the letter was referring to. It wasn't at all out of context or all that strange. It was a simple communication that didn't mean all that much - it didn't _have_ to mean that much - and he didn't know why he found it so...uncomfortable. But there was something...resigned about it. Something final. Something that told him there was a reason Avery hadn't delivered it himself.

Had Avery given up? Where was he? Was he leaving? Had he already left? Perhaps not...perhaps he could still catch him, convince him to stay. But how to find him…?

Struck by an idea, he quickly rose from his seat, ignoring the queries of his fellow Slytherins, and jogged over to the Gryffindor table, to where Fred and George Weasley were seated.

Once he reached their spot, he cleared his throat, and when they looked over, he said softly, "May I speak to you two outside for a moment?"

The twins looked at each other, puzzled.

"It'll just be a moment."

EIther Fred or George shrugged. "Sure."

And with that, they followed Harry out of the Great Hall. Once the door had closed behind them, Harry began, "Before the Yule Ball last year, you conspired with two of my friends to play pranks at the ball, do you remember?"

"Do we remember, he asks, George."

"He did, Fred."

"We'll have you know, Harry, that we remember every single prank we've ever played."

"Who we played them on."

"And who we played them with."

Harry tried to smile, but he thought he failed, in his haste. "Excellent. And when you four were planning the prank, you ended up showing them a map, a map that shows the location of everyone in the school."

The twins looked quite grim at that.

"They weren't supposed to say a word about that," Fred said.

"Theo tells me everything," Harry said by way of explanation.

"Good to know," George muttered.

"Anyway," Harry said hastily, "There's someone I very much need to find right now - _right now_ \- do you think you could lend it to me for a half hour or so?"

Fred and George looked at each other.

"I can pay," Harry offered.

Fred quirked an eyebrow. "We don't want your money, Harry."

"Fair enough - it was just an offer. But please...I really, _really_ need it."

Fred and George stared at each other for a moment, before nodding.

"We'll give it to you," George said.

"But know this," Fred said grimly.

"If you lose it…."

"Well, let's just say it'll be a mistake that will haunt you forever."

For some reason, Harry didn't doubt it.

Fred then produced a blank, folded piece of parchment from his robe pocket, before tapping it with his wand and saying, " _I solemnly swear I am up to no good_."

Instantly, ink blossomed across the page, revealing the outer folds of the map.

"When you're done, tap it and say, 'mischief managed', or else anyone can read it."

Harry nodded firmly. "I won't forget this."

Fred and George glanced at each other. "Don't suppose you'll tell us what this is for?"

"No time to explain - I'll tell you later." Once he could come up with a decent lie…

George shrugged. "Right then, enjoy."

Harry smiled tightly. "Will do."

The twins re-entered the Great Hall, and immediately Harry began to make his way in the opposite direction.

Unfolding the parchment, Harry's eyes crawled all over the massive map, searching for the name _Jordan Avery_ \- until he found it etched below a pair of footprints sitting stationary in what appeared to be the sixth year Slytherin boys' bathroom.

Harry smiled slightly, grateful that he had found Avery in time, and started to jog towards the dungeons, glancing at the map every so often to confirm that Avery was still there.

As he neared the dungeons, however, he noticed something strange that had him stopping dead in his tracks; the footprints and name had started to flicker.

Harry frowned. Was the map malfunctioning? He had forgotten to ask if it _always_ worked correctly - which would have been an important caveat to consider.

He stared down at the map again - just as the footprints and name both vanished completely.

Suddenly, Harry felt the unmistakable feeling of uneasiness washing over him - a feeling that told him that this was not a mere map malfunction; a feeling that told him that something was very, very wrong.

So he started running, as fast as he could, towards the Slytherin Common Room. Once he'd uttered the password, he darted inside and towards the boys' dorms, until he reached the last door, which belonged to the sixth years.

Barging inside, he found no one there, so he turned to the bathroom and knocked on the door.

"Avery?" he called quietly.

"Jordan?" he said a little louder.

There was no answer.

Again, he pounded at the door. "Avery! Open up!"

Still no answer.

Starting to feel the telltale tendrils of dread creeping over him, Harry decided to take a risk and whisper, " _Alohomora."_

The door clicked open. He stepped inside. His eyes widened.

Avery was there. In the bathtub. Head hung and skin pale.

"Avery?" he asked gently, voice wavering.

No answer.

Slowly, he walked over to the bathtub, and as he drew closer he observed a wand he recognized as Avery's floating in the small puddle of blood that had gathered around him, clearly having spilled out upon being released by the two deep, long incisions creeping down his arm.

He felt sick.

His shaking hand reached out, then, trembling uncontrollably as he touched the pulse point on his neck.

Nothing. Still warm, but silent.

Jumping back from the tub he doubled over, gagging, slapping a hand over his mouth as he clenched his eyes shut, trying to fight down hyperventilation.

When he opened his eyes again the world in front of him was swimming, but as he tried to regain focus he noticed a white splotch on the floor - which he recognized, as his vision slowly cleared, as a piece of parchment.

He knelt down and picked up the small piece of parchment, finding only six words written on it.

' _She doesn't deserve to be alone.'_

"Harry? Harry!"

Hearing Theo's voice, Harry rushed out of the bathroom and slammed the door behind him, leaning back on it as though to prevent the corpse of Jordan Avery from following him out.

Theo just then entered the dorm room, panting. "What's in -"

"Don't go in there!" Harry interrupted, straightening his back against the bathroom door.

"A-alright -"

"I need you to get help."

"For who -"

"NOW THEO!"

Eyes widening, Theo took off immediately.

Meanwhile, Harry did what he could to calm his breathing down, while Tom tried unsuccessfully to comfort him -

 _...I realize that you were...fond, of the boy, but he clearly wasn't as capable as his father and would not have made suitable…._

Harry ignored him and cast his eyes around the room, and they came to rest on another piece of parchment, this time a folded piece set on one of the four-poster beds in the room. It was the only bed that still had a book bag leaning upon the side, so Harry guessed it was Avery's. Slowly making his way towards the bed, Harry carefully unfolded the parchment, reading the first few lines:

 _'To my son,_

 _'Charlotte took her own life this morning. My baby girl hung herself from the light fixture in her bedroom. I hope you are grateful for the sacrifice my poor Charlotte made for your freedom, for she gave all she had to give. Day in and day out, begging your father to forgive you, enduring his wrath._

 _'But know this: though your father no longer has any hold over you he will not rest until you have been brought to our Lord's justice for your desertion of his cause …'_

At that moment, both Professor Snape and Theo burst into the room.

"Potter -"

"It's Black now," Harry rasped out, thrusting the two pieces of parchment towards Professor Snape, who seemed to have noticed Harry's state, and seemed more concerned than impatient.

Professor Snape made quick work of reading the letter and the short note penned by Avery, growing even paler than usual as he did. Once he finished, he looked up at Harry. "Is he -"

Harry nodded mutely.

Professor Snape nodded back, visibly pained. "Go to class. And speak to no one of this."

Harry nodded again.

"Come on, Theo," he said quietly.

Theo nodded and followed him out of the room.

"What happened?" he whispered once they reached the Common Room.

Harry said nothing. He just took Theo's hand and stared blankly at the ground, allowing Theo to lead him to Charms.

* * *

"If I may say a few words, before you all resume your consumption of this scrumptious meal," Professor Dumbledore said, a grim countenance on his face, "Two days ago, you lost one of your classmates, Jordan Avery, in what his parents have requested I describe as a tragic accident. I am bound by law and decency to say no more….however, I encourage you, as always, to look for the explanation behind the explanation...the truth behind the untruth. Now if you would all join me in a moment of silence for Mr. Jordan Avery."

* * *

"Good evening, everyone."

Harry scanned the crowd that had gathered in the Room of Requirement. It included a wide assortment of Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws, most of whom he knew in passing, and were friendly with…

"Wait, _you're_ teaching us?"

Others, not so much.

Early in the term (right before their first Charms class in fact), Finnigan had ranted at Harry a bit, going on about how his mother hadn't wanted to come back to Hogwarts because of Harry and Dumbledore's claims. Harry had (reasonably) responded with simply arguing that his mother can't have cared _that_ much, if she dared to entertain the possibility that Voldemort _hadn't_ returned, and wasn't a threat he needed to learn to defend against...which didn't go over so well. In fact, it probably would have resulted in a punching match if Hermione, Ron Weasley, and Professor Flitwick hadn't intervened.

"I am," Harry intoned evenly, "I've faced Voldemort wand-to-wand, after all."

"So you _claim_ ," Finnigan responded at the time same as a boy Harry recognized as Zacharias Smith.

"What reason have I to lie?" Harry asked.

"You -" Smith began, somewhat uncomfortably.

"I what? Wanted more fame? I wanted to be famous for both defeating _and_ losing against Voldemort, because defeating him wasn't enough? I wanted to bring down the fury of all of Voldemort's loyal disciples on me for claiming I'd managed to escape him once again, did I? Moreover, I beat myself up and splinched myself apparating just to make it convincing, right?"

The two boys fell silent, at that.

Harry sighed.

"I'm sorry, I'm not here to prove anyone wrong. I honestly don't care what you think. No offence intended."

A few murmurs permeated the room, at that.

"I actually came here to talk about Jordan Avery."

And that got people talking more audibly - soon, chatter filled the room in one great cacophony of noise, too loud for Harry to speak over.

" _Sonorous. If I may have your attention for a few short minutes."_ He cancelled the spell once everyone had quieted down some. "Thank you. I realize that you're all very curious, given the cryptic nature of the the Headmaster's words on the matter a few days ago. I would like to provide for you the truth behind the untruth that the Headmaster spoke of. I can do this because...because I was the one who found his body."

The room grew silent at that

"None of us...knew Jordan Avery very well...but we liked to think we did. Quiet, apathetic, not really caring about anything or anyone - invisible, for the most part...that's what we thought, and he never gave us any evidence to the contrary. Until now.

"Avery left behind two pieces of himself; a letter from his mother, blaming him for his sister's death -"

Murmurs once again broke out across the room.

"- and a note containing only six words – S _he doesn't deserve to be alone._ "

And with that, everyone grew deathly silent.

"Five days ago Charlotte Avery, a ten year old girl who would have attended Hogwarts with us next year, hung herself in her bedroom. She was found by her mother and cremated without a funeral, just like her brother has been. Now, you might wonder, why would a ten year old girl kill herself? The answer is simple, really; it's the same answer as the one to the question, why did Jordan Avery have to die? The answer is simple - it was love. She couldn't stand the the thought of him resigning himself to a life of torture, servitude, and depravity because of her, and he couldn't bear the thought of living without her.

"You see, Avery wasn't supposed to return to Hogwarts this year; he was forbidden by his father, who wanted to force him to follow in his footsteps, and take the Dark Mark, signing away his future to Lord Voldemort."

Once again, whispers broke out across the room.

"This wasn't a tragic _accident,_ as some would have you believe. There are no _accidents_ where Voldemort is involved. That's not what it was at all.

"There's been a lot of talking lately, arguing. Some people say he's back, some people say he's not; some people say he's evil, some people say he's not. I heard, the other day in the Slytherin Common Room, someone ask if evil even exists in the world. If it's just fear-mongering and dogmatism. That's a nice thought, it really is.

" _Some people_ would have you believe that this is no concern of yours, that there is no evil, that it doesn't truly exist. But they're wrong, and very soon that will become clear to all of us. And when it does, they'll try to tell you that sure, there's evil _out there_ , but you don't have to worry, you don't have to do anything at all because you're in here, and the evil's out there. This is also a lie: it's already here."

Everyone had grown deathly silent by this point, and Harry could feel dozens of eyes trained on him, hanging on to his every word.

"Evil isn't one thing; it comes in many shapes, and has many faces. But here, and now...this is what evil looks like. A dead little girl and her brother bleeding out in a school bathroom. Two _children_ choosing death instead of the future in front of them. Evil exists, and it walks among us, unseen, unheard, and unchecked.

"Jordan Avery's death was not a tragic accident," he said, his voice breaking slightly at the statement...honestly words could not express how angry those two words made him feel. "He was murdered, and to say otherwise is an insult to his memory. A vile, unconscionable, cruel insult. And that's a fact.

"And now I must ask you, will you continue to be as blind and deaf as the evil would have you be? Or will you acknowledge the evil around us and take the first steps in fighting against it - by learning how to fight it in the first place? Well?"

Almost immediately, a girl he recognized as Ginny Weasley stepped forward. "I want to fight," she said adamantly.

The girl standing beside her, Luna Lovegood, also stepped forward. "As do I."

Then Ron Weasley stepped forward. "Me as well."

The Weasley twins stepped forward as well. "Us as well."

A Hufflepuff by the name of Susan Bones also stepped forward. "Me too."

Her friend Hannah Abbott stepped forward also. "Same here."

Soon, the entire group of students had stepped forward and declared their determination to fight, leaving Harry standing in the midst of more than two dozen of his classmates, who had all, if a little inadvertently, just signed up for his cause. They didn't know what they were getting into now; they didn't know that they were the beginnings of a revolution that could end up shaping the magical world. It was then that he truly realized how far he had come from the little boy who arrived at Hogwarts not even knowing how to make his first friend.

"Then let's begin."

* * *

Harry had caught Hermione and Theo casting worried glances at each other as they helped the fourth and fifth year students learn the stunning charm; once the first meeting of the unnamed defence study club was over, they exchanged nods.

Soon everyone had left the room, and only Hermione remained in the Room of Requirement with Harry.

"You wanted to talk to me?" he said evenly, silently fearing some sort of moral rebuke about using Avery's death as a motivator for the other students. "I know I shouldn't have brought up Avery," he began, "It just...came out. It's been on my mind a great deal and -"

Next thing he knew, Hermione's arms had wrapped around him.

"I didn't know you two were so close," Hermione said quietly, eyes glimmering with sympathy as she released him from the embrace.

Harry hesitated. "We weren't," he said finally, softly, "We weren't even friends. We talked a few times, is all. Four or five conversations – that's it. I just...if things had been just a little different...I could have saved them both. It wasn't impossible; it _could_ have been that way. But it wasn't."

"Harry, it wasn't your -"

"I know it wasn't my fault...but somehow that doesn't make me feel any better about it."

* * *

" _Dead."_

" _Why do they always die?"_

" _...there are no gods."_

" _There is only death."_

* * *

Sorry for the short chapter. I hope you enjoyed it despite its length.


	24. Acceleration

**Disclaimer:** Well, you know.

 **AN:** I know, I know, I was supposed to publish this weeks ago. And believe it or not, I don't even have any of my typical excuses. No, I was having afternoon tea and making potions in London (whilst also attempting to track down every Harry Potter themed drink in the city), drinking champagne every night in the French country side, visiting multiple bars (including a very nice hookah bar) in Paris, and sitting in a hotel room being hungry and depressed in Vienna (ok, this is a bit more typical of me). And tomorrow I start classes...but I wanted to get this out before I forget again. And it so happens to be Sunday!

* * *

 **Chapter 23: Acceleration**

' _...he clearly wasn't as capable as his father and wouldn't have made suitable…'_

Tom's words regarding Avery haunted Harry for weeks after his death.

The cold - chilling, really - attempt to comfort him had done the exact opposite, lighting Harry's mind on fire with worried thoughts and anxious speculations.

There was, of course, some measure of relief that he had never told Tom about his own attempt, lest he too be considered 'unsuitable', but that was overshadowed by the feeling of...loss, almost. A kind of grief that came from the fact that he had confirmed that it was unwise to tell his oldest and dearest friend, the man who raised him, about a pivotal moment in his life that was not only of some kind of twisted sentimental value, but also, perhaps, some relevance to their future goals. This, mixed with the sadness of having lost someone who might have been, one day, his friend, and not being able to follow through with his promise of helping him, put Harry in a mood that was dreary at best and foul at worst for the next few weeks.

In the meantime, Educational Decree Twenty-Four followed Dolores Umbridge's appointment as High Inquisitor; it forbade the existence of student groups of any kind. Umbridge had likely caught wind of the unnamed defence club - they were currently bouncing between 'The Umbridge Conspiracy', 'The Renegade Defenders', 'The Hogwarts Heretics', and the more tame 'Hogwarts Defence League'. Nevertheless, despite the Ministry's most recent attempt to disrupt Hogwarts students' lives and thwart Harry's every step, the Umbridge Conspiracy (Harry's favourite name among the contenders) continued to meet, with all the members taking special care not to be seen on their way to and from the Room of Requirement.

Soon after, Harry had his second meeting with Professor Dumbledore, where he was, for the second time, exposed to the memory of Tom receiving his Hogwarts letter; however, the experience was _much_ different this time, seeing as it was Professor Dumbledore's memory of the event.

As he had last time, Professor Dumbledore asked for Harry's impressions on the interaction, though Harry was unable to say any of the things that struck him as significant; for it was far different from the first time he witnessed it. The depth of the fear present at the beginning of the interaction was not evident; nor was the extent of the anger near the end of it. The eleven year old Tom Riddle was already an excellent actor, more than Dumbledore seemed to think - Professor Dumbledore couldn't possibly have understood just how much he threatened the young Tom Riddle, and how deeply seated Tom's hatred of him was. So he settled on a modest analysis of Tom's apparent mental state at the time, and that was that.

Educational Decree Twenty-Five followed, which gave Dolores Umbridge complete control over student punishments at Hogwarts. Given what he knew of Umbridge's 'punishments', this in particular had Harry very concerned; however, there wasn't much he could do besides write Miranda Thistlebaum and inquire into her progress.

Five days later he received a reply.

' _Check tomorrow's Prophet._

' _M. T.'_

* * *

Harry peered down at the _Daily Prophet_ issue lying upon the Slytherin table, eyes widening and mouth curling into a smile when he saw the headline:

 _MINISTRY EDUCATION REFORM A FACADE: THE SINS OF DOLORES UMBRIDGE AND CORNELIUS FUDGE_

Below the glaring headline was he photo Hermione had given him of her hand, bearing the words ' _I must not tell lies'._

He glanced over to the staff table where he saw Professor McGonagall looking absolutely furious and Umbridge looking white as a ghost. Professor Dumbledore met Harry's eyes, their blue glimmer dimmed.

 _We will speak of this later,_ the look said.

Harry swallowed his nervousness and smiled.

"So," Tracey drawled as she sat down beside Harry, pecking him on the cheek, "What bullshit is smeared across the front page this morning?"

"No bullshit this morning, Tracey," Harry said cheerfully.

Theo looked up from the scrambled eggs he was devouring. "Is that your article!?" he exclaimed, looking over Harry's shoulder.

" _Your_ article?" Tracey echoed.

"I didn't write it," Harry clarified. "Miranda Thistlebaum wrote it. I just….gave her a push in the right direction."

"Well?" Tracey said eagerly. "What does it say?"

Harry's eyes travelled down to the page and he began to read, " _On September 4, a Hogwarts student, who we will henceforward refer to as Miss Green, raised her hand in class. She was concerned, as a fifth year student, by the fact that her Defence Against the Dark Arts professor did not plan to allow her students to cast spells in class. Her concern was, in addition to not passing her OWLs, that she and her fellow students would not learn to defend themselves from real threats. Miss Green mentioned one threat in particular - He Who Must Not Be Named, who is rumoured to have returned in recent months. Though Dolores Umbridge, her professor, firmly insisted that these rumours were, in fact, lies, Miss Green persisted, noting that it was questionable to dismiss the eyewitness account of the supposed event._

" _Two days later, Miss Green left Umbridge's office bearing the words 'I must not tell lies' on her hand, carved into her skin. Over the next few weeks Miss Green would learn that she was not alone; that a Blood Quill is among Umbridge's favourite instruments of torture when it comes to punishing students - students as young as 11 have suffered under Umbridge's draconian form of punishment, and have been scared into silence by the threat of expulsion._

 _Now, one might wonder why a bureaucrat like Umbridge (formerly Senior Undersecretary to the Minister), who has a track record of lying about her blood status and spouting uncharitable views about muggleborns and so-called half-breeds behind closed doors (see page 13), was appointed Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at the prestigious Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The answer lies in Educational Decree Twenty-Two, which was passed only on August 30. This decree allows the Ministry of Magic to appoint a professor for a vacant position at Hogwarts if the position remains vacant after August 31 of the given year; this piece of legislation is supposed to combat the 'falling standards at Hogwarts'. Umbridge was directly appointed by the Minister himself._

" _However, we have uncovered that this decree has a much more nefarious purpose. Minutes from drafting sessions (of which Umbridge was an active part) disclosed to us by a source that wishes to remain anonymous have indicated that these 'falling standards' are not specifically standards of education, but rather the standards of Ministry alignment. Particularly, the Minister of Magic, during these meetings, expressed concerns that the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, has too much influence over the curriculum and teaching methods at the school. Concerns were also expressed, by both Umbridge and Fudge, that Dumbledore has been using his position as a platform to impart his political views on the younger generation and attract them to his 'cause' - this was clearly framed as a threat._

" _More concretely, Minister Fudge is quoted as saying, '...as long as we are blind to the goings-on inside Hogwarts and unable to interfere with them we are allowing Dumbledore to perpetuate this lie of You-Know-Who's return and breed unrest and strife. This office must maintain order.' This reveals a startling fact: that the Fudge and Umbridge designed this decree for the specific purpose of placing surveillance on the Hogwarts staff and student body and controlling public opinion and concern. Moreover, this indicates that our current administration feels that it is appropriate to use the education of underage children as an instrument of political influence._

" _What should we make of this? It is true that Hogwarts has had difficulty in filling the Defence Against the Dark Arts position since the retirement of Galatea Merrythought in 1945 (this hardly began with Dumbledore's tenure as Headmaster), but Umbridge has proved one of the worst candidates yet (there has been no record of corporal punishment at Hogwarts since the nineteenth century, by which time it was deemed unethical). The Ministry is clearly no better at appointing worthy candidates than Dumbledore himself; moreover, their reasons for doing so are demonstrably corrupt. Should Educational Decree Twenty-Two be abolished? Should Dolores Umbridge be prosecuted? The author to this paper believes the answers to these questions to be quite evident, but it is for the courts to decide. The author urges Wizengamot to convene as soon as possible to discuss these matters._

" _(For a more detailed expose on Dolores Umbridge, please see page 13)."_

"Bloody hell," Theo breathed, "It's over. It's finally over."

"Let me see that!" Tracey exclaimed, snatching the paper from Harry and turning to page 13.

"What's going on?" Daphne said as she sat down beside Theo with Millicent, pointedly avoiding meeting eyes with Harry. She was well aware of the ruse Tracey was putting on to win Draco's affections, and had agreed to lay off on the flirting with Harry. She also agreed to cease spending time directly with Tracey whenever others were around, to provide the illusion that she was jealous (because apparently sisters before misters). Truth be told, though Harry _still_ didn't believe that Tracey's plan was the most efficient way to accomplish her goal, he was impressed that she had put some thought into details like this. If he was going to be a part of it, it had better work.

"Umbridge is finished," Harry said smugly, "And with any luck, Fudge is too."

Daphne's blue eyes glittered. "And I suppose you had something to do with that?"

Harry shrugged. "I pulled a few strings."

* * *

"Ah, Harry, how good of you to come," Professor Dumbledore said when Harry stepped into his office for the November instance of their monthly sessions.

"Not at all, sir," Harry said, "What do you have to show me today?"

"I thought we might actually have a little chat today, before we start," the professor said cheerfully, gesturing for Harry to sit down.

"What about?" Harry asked slowly as he sat down.

Professor Dumbledore's smile turned pensive. "I could not help but notice that the author of today's _Daily Prophet's_ front page story was the same reporter that reported on your story two years ago. It made me curious as to whether or not you had a hand in producing that article."

"I did," Harry said, evenly and unabashedly.

"I am afraid I must question your decision to do so, my boy. Perhaps even chastise it."

 _Self-righteous old fool,_ Tom seethed, sounding incredibly annoyed and offended on Harry's behalf.

"What? Why?" Harry said with some indignance in his voice. " _Someone_ needed to do something about Umbridge."

"I agree, especially after reading this morning's article. It is not for Umbridge's sake that I am concerned about the way you handled this, Harry - it is for the sake of all the children who suffered while Ms. Thistlebaum was gathering evidence for her article."

"Hermione warned as many students as she could through her counselling sessions -"

"Which were disbanded over a month ago."

Harry sighed. "I know. I know that not reporting Umbridge was wrong, but Hermione and I decided that instead of risking another, smarter spy from the Ministry coming in, we ought to attack the root of the problem - the Ministry of Magic's interference at Hogwarts."

"And do you think this was worth the pain, fear, and suffering of your classmates?"

"I do."

Professor Dumbledore sighed and closed his eyes.

So Harry went on, with some element of...desperation in his voice. "I realize that this behaviour isn't necessarily sustainable from a moral point of view; as a student I'm in a unique position where I'm not really responsible for anyone, and can do what I think is optimal from a utilitarian perspective." He paused. "Wouldn't you have done the same in my position?"

"I would have once," Professor Dumbledore said wistfully, "Back when I was young and so very passionate about fighting for the greater good. Back when I, like you, was not truly responsible for anyone or anything but my own ethical theories and moral passions."

 _The Greater Good?_ Tom mused, _Fascinating._

"Then why do you feel you must rebuke me, sir?"

"Because I am a teacher, Harry, and as a teacher I must work toward the hope that my students will surpass me in knowledge, wisdom, and moral fibre."

Harry sighed. "I..." He struggled to find his next words, wanting to further argue, wanting to better understand _why_... "I suppose I understand."

"I want you to be prepared, Harry, for the day that you do bear the responsibility to protect those around you; for the day that you must do the right thing, even when it is not the most effective, efficient, or logical thing to do."

"I...I see," Harry said, hoping his voice didn't sound too stiff. "Does this chastisement come with a punishment, sir?"

"Indeed it does, Harry."

"I'm guessing today's article overrules Educational Decree Twenty-Five?"

"I would say so. I was thinking...detention."

Harry's heart sank. "With who?"

"Well, given that I am the one assigning your detention, I believe I should be the one to supervise it as well."

Harry blinked. "You, sir?"

"Indeed Harry. Now, I realize that you have a great deal on your plate at the moment, what with studying for OWLs, playing quidditch, as well as your... extra-curricular activities -"

Harry's eyes widened, and dread crawled up inside his chest. Which extracurricular activities in particular was the professor referring to? Surely only the Umbridge Conspiracy, or else he would have put a stop to it...

"- oh yes, I know about that. So how about we make ourselves a compromise - you will serve detention with me in the summertime. You see, I will be sorting through some old notes and manuscripts and determining what is potential posthumous publication material and what is not. I could use a helping hand."

Harry's eyes lit up. "Of course, sir! I would be happy to help."

Professor Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow.

"I mean…" Harry straightened his face. "I am sure I will survive this particularly tedious detention."

Professor Dumbledore chuckled. "That's the spirit! Now! Shall we get started?"

Like he had during the last two sessions, he withdrew a vial of silver-white substance, holding it up for Harry to see.

"As we have twice before, we meet this evening to continue the tale of Tom Riddle, whom we left last lesson poised on the threshold of his years at Hogwarts. You will remember how excited he was to hear that he was a wizard, that he refused my company on a trip to Diagon Alley, and that I, in turn, warned him against continued thievery when he arrived at school."

"Yes, I recall."

"Well, the start of the school year arrived and with it came Tom Riddle, a quiet boy in his secondhand robes, who lined up with the other first years to be sorted. He was placed in Slytherin House almost the moment that the Sorting Hat touched his head," Professor Dumbledore continued, waving his blackened hand toward the shelf over his head where the Sorting Hat sat, ancient and unmoving. "How soon Riddle learned that the famous founder of the House could talk to snakes, I do not know - perhaps that very evening. The knowledge can only have excited him and increased his sense of self-importance."

Not that he needed it, Harry couldn't help but think.

"However, if he was frightening or impressing fellow Slytherins with displays of Parseltongue in their common room, no hint of it reached the staff. He showed no sign of outward arrogance or aggression at all. As an unusually talented and very good-looking orphan, he naturally drew attention and sympathy from the staff almost from the moment of his arrival. He seemed polite, quiet, and thirsty for knowledge. Nearly all were most favorably impressed by him."

"Except you?" Harry guessed.

"Let us say that I did not take it for granted that he was trustworthy," Professor Dumbledore admitted. "I had, as I have already indicated, resolved to keep a close eye upon him, and so I did. I cannot pretend that I gleaned a great deal from my observations at first. He was very guarded with me; he felt, I am sure, that in the thrill of discovering his true identity he had told me a little too much. He was careful never to reveal as much again, but he could not take back what he had let slip in his excitement, nor what Mrs. Cole had confided in me. However, he had the sense never to try and charm me as he charmed so many of my colleagues.

"As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a group of dedicated friends; I call them that, for want of a better term, although as I have already indicated, Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them. This group had a kind of dark glamour within the castle. They were a motley collection; a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty. In other words, they were the forerunners of the Death Eaters, and indeed some of them became the first Death Eaters after leaving Hogwarts.

"Rigidly controlled by Riddle, they were never detected in open wrongdoing, although their seven years at Hogwarts were marked by a number of nasty incidents to which they were never satisfactorily linked, the most serious of which was, of course, the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, which resulted in the death of a girl.

"I have not been able to find many memories of Riddle at Hogwarts," Professor Dumbledore said, placing his withered hand on the pensieve at the centre of his desk. "Few who knew him then are prepared to talk about him; they are too terrified. What I know, I found out after he had left Hogwarts, after much painstaking effort, after tracing those few who could be tricked into speaking, after searching old records and questioning Muggle and wizard witnesses alike."

"How very Slytherin of you, professor," Harry commented with a small smile.

Professor Dumbledore smiled back. "As I have said before, age tends to bring out the Slytherin in all of us. Anyhow, those whom I could persuade to talk told me that Riddle was obsessed with his parentage. This is understandable, of course; he had grown up in an orphanage and naturally wished to know how he came to be there. It seems that he searched in vain for some trace of Tom Riddle senior on the shields in the trophy room, on the lists of prefects in the old school records, even in the books of Wizarding history. Finally he was forced to accept that his father had never set foot in Hogwarts. I believe that it was then that he dropped the name forever, assumed the identity of Lord Voldemort, and began his investigations into his previously despised mother's family - the woman whom, you will remember, he had thought could not be a witch if she had succumbed to the shameful human weakness of death.

"All he had to go upon was the single name 'Marvolo,' which he knew from those who ran the orphanage had been his mother's father's name. Finally, after painstaking research through old books of Wizarding families, he discovered the existence of Slytherin's surviving line. In the summer of his seventeenth year, he left the orphanage to which he returned annually and set off to find his Gaunt relatives. And now, Harry, if you will stand…"

He pointed his wand at the bottle, causing the cork to once again fly out.

"I was very lucky to collect this," he said, as he poured the gleaming mass into the pensieve. "As you will understand when we have experienced it. Shall we?"

Harry stepped up to the pensieve seated at the desk between them, lowering his head until it was submerged in the memory. He then felt the familiar tumble through the whirling darkness before landing on a dirty stone floor in almost pitch blackness.

It was the Gaunt shack, once again, this time looking much more like it had when he had visited the first time; filthy and slowly wasting away into a crumble of dirt, moss, and brittle stone. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. The only light came from a single candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown Harry could see neither eyes nor mouth. He was slumped in an armchair by the fire, and Harry wondered for a moment whether or not he was dead. But then there came a loud knock on the door and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his right hand and a short knife in his left. It was Morfin, Harry suddenly realized from his posture and gait.

The door creaked open. There on the threshold, holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy Harry recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, and handsome - the teenage Tom Riddle. Reminded of that painful duel in the chamber of secrets, he shivered slightly.

Riddle's eyes moved slowly around the hovel and then found the man in the armchair. For a few seconds they looked at each other, before the man staggered upright, the many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor.

"YOU!" he bellowed. "YOU!" And then he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft.

 _:Stop,:_ Riddle said in Parseltongue.

The man skidded into the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they contemplated each other.

The man broke it. _:You speak it?:_

 _:Yes, I speak it,:_ Riddle said. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. His face merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment. "Where is Marvolo?" he asked.

"Dead," Morfin said. "Died years ago, didn't he?"

Riddle frowned. "Who are you, then?"

"I'm Morfin, ain't I?"

"Marvolo's son?"

"'Course I am, then..." Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle, and Harry saw that he wore Marvolo's black-stoned ring on his right hand. "I thought you was that Muggle," Morfin whispered. "You look mighty like that Muggle."

"What Muggle?" Riddle asked sharply.

"That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way," Morfin explained, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them. "You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, in 'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it..." Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge of the table for support. "He come back, see," he added stupidly.

Riddle was gazing at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities. Then he moved a little closer and said, "Riddle came back?"

"Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!" Morfin growled, spitting on the floor again. "Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket!?"

Riddle did seem to have any answer for that.

Morfin was working himself into a rage again; he brandished his knife and shouted, "Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who're you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit…. It's over..."

He looked away, staggering slightly, and Tom Riddle moved forward. As he did so, an unnatural darkness fell, extinguishing Voldemort's lamp and Morfin's candle, drenching in darkness everything around them - even the brief semblances of twilight sneaking through the windows. Harry felt Professor Dumbledore's fingers close tightly around hiss arm, and a moment later, they were soaring back into the present again.

The soft golden light in Dumbledore's office caused Harry to squint after that impenetrable darkness.

"He wiped his memory?" Harry guessed.

"Precisely," Professor Dumbledore confirmed, "When Morfin awoke next morning, he was lying on the floor, quite alone. Marvolo's ring had gone.

"Meanwhile, in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid was running along the High Street, screaming that there were three bodies lying in the drawing room of the big house: Tom Riddle Senior and his mother and father.

"The Muggle authorities were perplexed. As far as I am aware, they do not know to this day how the Riddles died, for the _avada kedavra_ curse does not usually leave any sign of damage...the exception sits before me," Dumbledore added, with a nod to Harry's scar. "The Ministry, on the other hand, knew at once that this was a wizard's murder. They also knew that a convicted muggle-hater lived across the valley from the Riddle house, a muggle-hater who had already been imprisoned once for attacking one of the murdered people."

Harry nodded slowly. "I think I see where this is going..."

"Indeed. They did not need to question him, to use veritaserum or legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot, giving details only the murderer could know. He was proud, he said, to have killed the muggles, had been awaiting his chance all these years. He handed over his wand, which was proved at once to have been used to kill the Riddles. And he permitted himself to be led off to Azkaban without a fight. All that disturbed him was the fact that his father's ring had disappeared. 'He'll kill me for losing it,' he told his captors over and over again. 'He'll kill me for losing his ring.' And that, apparently, was all he ever said again. He lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo's last heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside the other poor souls who have expired within its walls."

"So Voldemort stole Morfin's wand and used it?" Harry asked.

"That's right," Professor Dumbledore confirmed. "We have no memories to show us this, but I think we can be fairly sure what happened. Voldemort stupefied his uncle, took his wand, and proceeded across the valley to 'the big house over the way' There he murdered the muggle man who had abandoned his witch mother, and, for good measure, his muggle grandparents, thus obliterating the last of the unworthy Riddle line and revenging himself upon the father who never wanted him. Then he returned to the Gaunt hovel, performed the complex bit of magic that would implant a false memory in his uncle's mind, laid Morfin's wand beside its unconscious owner, pocketed the ancient ring he wore, and departed."

Harry frowned. "And Morfin never realized he hadn't done it?"

"Never," said Dumbledore. "He gave, as I say, a full and boastful confession."

"But he had this memory all along, didn't he? Surely someone besides you could have realized what happened - it's not that hard to deduce that at the very least Voldemort was involved."

"Yes, but it took a great deal of skilled legilimency to coax it out of him," Professor Dumbledore explained, "And why should anybody delve further into Morfin's mind when he had already confessed to the crime?"

"I suppose so..."

"However, I was able to secure a visit to Morfin in the last weeks of his life, by which time I was attempting to discover as much as I could about Voldemort's past. I extracted this memory with difficulty. When I saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure Morfin's release from Azkaban. Before the Ministry reached their decision, however, Morfin had died."

Harry nodded. "Morphin was...quite insane, wasn't he?"

Professor Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Quite, yes."

"Do you...think it was the inbreeding or his father?"

"His father?"

"His father...mistreated them. Or at least Merope. And sure that could have...I...I don't think Dudley will ever be quite sane, after seeing what was done to me, and I don't know if...I…"

"I think it was a little bit of both," Professor Dumbledore said softly. "The inbreeding was certainly a factor, and he was doubtlessly mistreated by his father during his lifetime. Coupled with years of watching the tormenting of his sister and lacking the education to know right from wrong, truth from delusion...I suppose it would have been very difficult not to go quite mad."

Harry nodded silently, and they both stilled.

"Is that all, sir?" Harry asked suddenly.

"That is all for tonight, Harry. You may go."

Harry nodded, rising to his feet. "Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight, Harry."

As Harry left the office, he murmured, "What's fascinating about what Professor Dumbledore said earlier?"

He could hear the curiosity in Tom's voice. _The Greater Good._

"What about it?"

 _Also translated as Für das Größere Wohl. It was a...catchphrase of sorts of Grindelwald's - the concept he used to justify his 'atrocities'._

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "It's a common enough phrase. I don't think it means any thing that Professor Dumbledore used it."

 _Perhaps...haven't you ever thought it curious that Dumbledore didn't bother to confront Grindelwald until 1945?_

"What are you suggesting?"

 _That perhaps Dumbledore might have once been...sympathetic to Grindelwald's cause._

Harry frowned. "I...don't think there's sufficient evidence to say either way."

 _I suppose._

Somehow Harry got the impression Tom wasn't convinced.

And for some reason Harry found himself hoping it was true...and yet dreading it.

* * *

The day after the article was published, Dolores Umbridge was taken into DMLE custody. It was fascinating - as she was taken away it was like a cloud (the whirling dark sort, not the the white and fluffy sort) had lifted from Hogwarts, and despite the fact that there was now a vacant position in the staff, everyone seemed much more at ease.

Two weeks later was the trial - to which Hermione was called as a witness - which ended in Umbridge being convicted and sent to Azkaban for the next two years, much to everyone's delight (at least, everyone Harry knew was delighted; even Professor Snape was delighted, though of course he didn't dare show it).

And that's what led to You-Know-What's 'The Grand Umbridge Farewell Party'. It was a night... _everyone_ would forget.

* * *

"Harry, can we spike the punch?" someone asked him when he was studying in the library one day.

"Sure," he said, too caught up in his arithmancy homework to really know what he was agreeing to.

* * *

"And then, I was like, nooooo, neveeeerrrr, and then the house elf just cleaned my room for me. What a pushover. And that's how I….I...what was I talking about again?"

Draco glanced around the circle of fifth years playing 'Truth or Dare' in a corner while a dance party raged in the background.

Hermione pointed a finger at him, swaying slightly. She, like virtually everyone else, was quite intoxicated; somebody (Harry's bets were on one of the older Gryffindors) had spiked the punch, and once everyone had had a fair bit of it, the shots of firewhiskey came out, and by then Hermione was too drunk to care (she _really_ liked the punch). "You, Malfoy, were s'pposed to tell the truth."

"I was!"

"No _way_ that's the worst thing your parents know you've done."

"Agreed," Theo said solemnly. "You're a brat, Draco!"

"Am not."

"Are too."

"K, maybe a little. Um, I guess m' dad prolly knew twas me that trashed his office around 10 years ago. Blamed Dobby but dunno if anyone believed me. Sooo...Theo! Truth or dare?"

Theo looked at him warily. "...truth."

"Hahahaha," Draco laughed menacingly. "Your funeral. Who do you have a crush on?"

"No one," Theo said instantly.

"Nobody believes that. Do we believe that, anybody?"

"No."

"Nope."

"Not at all."

Harry and Hermione remained conspicuously silent.

Theo smiled awkwardly, in that slightly manic way that people do when they're wildly embarrassed. "I wanna dance!" he said suddenly. "Harry! 'Mione! Let's dance!"

Without waiting for an answer, Theo grabbed their hands and led them out to the dance floor.

"Jus' like old times," Hermione said happily as she quickly began to follow the beat.

Harry frowned. "We've never danced together."

Hermione shrugged. "Dancing, duelling, 's all the same."

Theo laughed and started hopping between duelling stances and making slashing motions through the air. "That's the spirit!"

Hermione giggled.

Harry grinned, beginning to wave his hands about, engaging Theo in his fake duel. He continued to make strange flourishes in the air, until one sent a small ball of flame reeling toward one of the banners hung up in the Room of Requirement, which were essentially vandalized portraits of Dolores Umbridge.

The banner went up in flames, followed by a great cheer across the dance floor.

Apparently Hermione wasn't _that_ far gone, because she took a moment to glare at Harry before rushing to put out the fire quickly devouring the portrait of Umbridge with a monocle and a Hitler moustache drawn onto it.

Meanwhile, Theo spun around, probably to compliment Harry on his pyrotechnic display, but froze in place. "Merlin, your eyes."

Harry's eyes widened, and he began to panic. Had they turned red or something? "What's wrong with my eyes!?"

"They're so...so _pretty_."

"Um..."

Slowly, Theo lifted his right hand to place it on Harry's face -

Suddenly, he was pushed backwards, by none other than Tracey Davis. "What d'you think you're doing with my boyfriend?" she said, placing her hands on her hips playfully.

Theo's cheeks lit up red. "Nothing!"

Tracey nodded with a cheeky smile. "Well, good. Come on, Harry, let's make out."

"Wha -"

Suddenly Tracey's face was pressed against his, and he really couldn't do anything but flail weakly.

Somewhere in the background he heard Theo mutter, "I need some more firewhisky."

Soon after, Tracey gave him some air, before murmuring in his ear. "Sorry about that. Draco was looking this way."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I think it's Theo you need to apologize to. I think you scared him away. That was actually rather cruel, snogging me in front of him. Yeah, you should _really_ apologize."

Tracey's eyes widened. "Oh shit."

And she ran off, presumably to find Theo and apologize.

Harry released an uneasy breath. Between Theo and Tracey...both of them claimed they didn't expect anything _romantic_ from him, but that wasn't quite true, was it. He and Theo ever so occasionally would have moments like _that_ , which were terrifying, and Tracey expected him to hold her hand and snog her, which were just...gross and tedious. It was all exhausting, and sometimes he felt himself wishing everyone would just leave him alone -

"So, is it true, you were friends with Avery?"

Harry spun around to find a tipsy-looking Ginny Weasley leaning on a pillar, uniform askew and hair slightly unkempt.

"Er, more acquaintances, than anything." he said awkwardly. "I...I wanted to help him," he admitted. "I failed."

She nodded sadly - he'd say soberly, but that particular term would be quite inappropriate. "You like to help people, don't you?"

"I - I suppose I do. I…"

"I still remember when you helped me."

Harry's mouth dropped open. "What?"

Ginny sighed, a little wistfully, and looked at him with eyes that shimmered slightly in the dim and colorful lights pulsing around them. "'Tom will never hurt you again' - I still remember your voice, when you said that. I'd never heard anything I wanted to hear so badly."

Harry's mouth went dry.

"I know, I'm not to speak of it - but you don't count, do you? I tried telling Luna, once, I couldn't."

"That's - that's right."

Ginny nodded, with a soft smile. "And that's alright, it is - because you kept your promise. Tom never bothered me again. He never bothered anyone again. The Chamber of Secrets remained closed."

Harry smiled, somewhat painfully. "Yes, yes it did."

Ginny seemed to pick up on the pain in his voice. "Was it - was it hard?"

Harry opened his mouth, completely ready to spill the whole escapade complete with the cruciatus curse and the possession - but then stopped short, his mouth dry. "It was. And I wish I could tell you...just how very hard it was. But…"

"But what?"

He ran his fingers through his hair. "But it wasn't as hard as failing."

And it wasn't. It really wasn't.

* * *

"What do you have to show me today, sir?"

"I have one last memory to show you, my boy, and before we begin, you should know...that this is perhaps the most important memory I have collected."

Harry's eyes widened.

Professor Dumbledore then took from an inside pocket another crystal phial. Harry noticed that the contents proved difficult to empty into the pensieve, as though they had congealed slightly; did memories go bad? Could they be corrupted?

"This will not take long," said Dumbledore, when he had finally emptied the phial. "We shall be back before you know it. Once more into the pensieve, then..."

Again they fell through the whirling darkness, before they landed in the midst of what looked like a meeting of sorts.

Sitting closest to them was an older man with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair and a small bald-patch on top. His mustache was gingery-blond and clashed with the colour of the velvet smoking jacket he was wearing. His little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, and he was sitting well back in a comfortable winged armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine, the other searching through a box of crystalized pineapple.

"This," Professor Dumbledore said, "Is Professor Horace Slughorn, former Potions Professor at Hogwarts and Head of Slytherin House."

Half a dozen boys were sitting around this man called Slughorn, all on harder or lower seats than his, and all in their mid-teens. Harry recognized Tom Riddle at once. His was the most handsome face in the room and he looked the most relaxed of all the boys. His right hand lay negligently upon the arm of his chair; with a jolt, Harry saw that he was wearing the Gaunt ring; he had already killed his father.

"Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?" he asked.

"Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you," said Slughorn, wagging a reproving, sugar-covered finger at Riddle, though ruining the effect slightly by winking. "I must say, I'd like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are."

Tom Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.

"What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter - thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you're quite right, it is my favorite -" As several of the boys tittered, something very odd happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with a thick white fog, so that Harry could see nothing but the face of Professor Dumbledore - looking quite calm as usual - who was standing beside him. Then Horace Slughorn's voice rang out through the mist, unnaturally loudly, "You'll go wrong, boy, mark my words."

The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared and yet nobody made any allusion to it, nor did anybody look as though anything unusual had just happened.

Bewildered, Harry looked around as a small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock.

"Good gracious, is it that time already?" Slughorn asked. "You'd better get going, boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery."

Harry felt a pang of guilt at the name Avery.

Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys filed out. Tom Riddle, however, stayed behind. Harry could tell he had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be last in the room with Slughorn.

"Look sharp, Tom," said Slughorn, turning around and finding him still present. "You don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect..."

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away..."

"Sir, I wondered what you know about...?" And it happened all over again: The dense fog filled the room so that Harry could not see Slughorn or Riddle at all; only Dumbledore, smiling serenely beside him. Then Slughorn's voice boomed out again, just as it had done before. "I don't know anything about them and I wouldn't tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don't let me catch you mentioning them again!"

"Well, that's that," Professor Dumbledore said placidly beside Harry. "Time to go."

And Harry's feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back onto the rug in front of Dumbledore's desk.

"Wait...that's it?" Harry asked, frowning.

"That's correct," Professor Dumbledore said pleasantly, clearly waiting for a deduction.

Harry frowned. "That's Horace Slughorn's memory, isn't it?"

"That is also correct."

"Then...did Mr. Slughorn obliviate himself? Alter the memory? Can you do that?"

"He altered the memory, I believe," Professor Dumbledore said, "Obliviating yourself is rather dangerous and not something Horace would attempt, I think."

"Then...that's why it's the most important memory you've collected," Harry said with realization, "You believe there's more to it, and that the reason it was tampered with was that it contained crucial information that Mr. Slughorn was too afraid to give up."

"Or too ashamed," Professor Dumbledore said softly.

Harry nodded slowly. "I suppose. How do you plan to find out what was...smudged out?"

"So glad you asked, Harry. You see, I will require your assistance on this."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Mine?"

Professor Dumbledore nodded and walked over to his office window, staring out at the bright yellow sheen of a late autumn moon and folding his hands behind his back. "With the sudden vacancy of the Defence against the Dark Arts position and the abolition of Educational Decree Twenty-Two, there is no one apparent to fill the position. I have decided that Professor Snape is the best wizard for the job, which will leave the position of Potions Professor open."

"Which you mean to fill with Horace Slughorn?" Harry wondered.

Professor Dumbledore turned to smile at him. "Precisely. Now, Horace won't, how do I say it...'come quietly' - he will need to be persuaded, and for that I will need to offer him something worth his while."

Harry frowned. "And what will you offer him?"

Professor Dumbledore's smile faded. "You."

"...me, sir?"

"Horace likes to...collect people. To receive the favour of people with power, fame, or fortune - all three of which you happen to have."

"So you think that if I...get close to him, he will be more likely to share the memory with me?"

"I do."

Harry nodded. "What do I need to do?"

* * *

Ok, so things are starting to speed up, now - I'm finally getting to the story I've been wanting to write for years now. I'll try to publish the next chapter in a couple of weeks, but no promises (I don't yet know how busy my schedule will be).


	25. Hiatusagain

Oh god, I can't believe I'm doing this again.

I'm so sorry.

I need to take an official break from writing. Some of you might be happy to know that it isn't entirely for health reasons, this time; on the other hand, some of you might be angry to hear this. But I can't please everybody.

I have an extremely intensive PhD program (just for the first semester though, weirdly enough) and am trying to accomplish research simultaneously. Basically, I'm spending 20 hours a week in lectures, another 20-30 on homework, another 10 on commuting, and about 30 on research. Essentially I am busy 13 of the 16 hours I am awake (or should be awake) each day, and that doesn't include things like eating or shopping or laundry. Pair that with adjusting to a new continent, learning a new language, and coming off several medications because of side effects...and you get a very unstable and exhausted Imaginizer.

I love working on this story, I really do...but the truth is, I love my research more. I've spent the last three days spending every waking hour on research, and I haven't felt this happy in so long. Even writing fanfiction can't do this for me. So I feel like I need to focus on what will make me the happiest and most satisfied with my life.

This semester ends in January, so come February I'll have a LOT more time on my hands and anticipate being able to devote time to writing again. But until then...I'm sorry guys. But the truth is, I've don'e the cost benefit analysis, and your futures and happiness don't depend entirely on whether or not I put work into this story for the next two or three months...but mine does. The work I'm doing right now has the potential to be hugely important to the development of AI and my career, and I can't take a break from it. I love you all for all the support you've given me these past few years, but I can't put your enjoyment of my story in front of my career.

So, once again, I must ask for patience. I'm sorry I have to do so, but that's just the way it is. I'll still keep an eye on my account so any messages or reviews asking questions will be responded to, but otherwise, I won't really have much activity on this site.

Best wishes, and good luck with your own lives.

E


	26. Sirius Black (Part 2)

**AN:** Hello everyone. I'm...well, I'd say I'm sorry for the wait, but I know that's getting old. For anyone who cares, my semester went quite well, with almost straight A's, and though I'm dealing with a plethora of other bullshiterries as per usual, life isn't all that bad. Yes, I'm lonely, off my meds, unable to focus, and lacking motivation, but I'm also alive and...well, alive. What more can a guy ask for, really? Fulfilment? Confidence? Happiness? What kind unrepentant moron wishes for hogwash like that? Certainly not this errant author. Certainly not.

Yeah, I'm probably descending into madness. I'll keep you updated. In the meantime, please enjoy the musings of one traumatised functional alcoholic.

* * *

 **Chapter 24: Sirius Black (Part 2)**

Dark shapes flitted across a starless sky; only the moon was visible, albeit through a sooty grey mist; but it seemed so small and faint that he wasn't quite sure it was real. Perhaps it was just a hopeful delusion. Hopeful for what, he didn't know. He supposed the moon was just... nice. It was a shame that the ever-foul weather rendered the sky never clear enough to see the crawling details on its surface...

The dark shapes fluttered closer to his tiny window, and a biting shiver ran down his spine. The changing of the guard would be soon, and then patrol, so he couldn't risk turning into Padfoot. He was stuck. He felt his chest constrict.

One of the shapes swooped down close to his window, and he felt himself begin to shake against his will, his teeth chattering as his entire body started to shudder.

"Not again, not again," he muttered as dread began to creep up his chest. He could feel it swimming around in like hungry acid in his gut and grasping at his ribs, threatening to devour his heart.

He heard Bellatrix, his mad cousin, begin to cackle, no doubt to celebrate his pain.

"The wittle Gwyffindor is scared, is he? Coward! COWARD!" she screamed.

He winced as her screams flooded his ears; even from across the tower they were piercing. Soon the screams turned into screams of pain, and that had him giggling shakily through his chattering teeth -

Until he heard the familiar flutter of a cloak outside his window.

Slowly he turned his eyes to face one of the creatures he was beginning to hate more than Voldemort himself...

No, he could never…

James, Lily….

Harry…

He was sure the creatures were legillimens, and that they could somehow talk, because he'd swear to Merlin he heard it speak.

 _Challenge accepted._

Fear - true, unabashed fear - seized him, and then there was pain, so much pain….

And it was raining. A light pitter-patter on the stone walls, goaded on by a haggard wind. It was was not pure; it was not kind. It would never be that sweet, cleansing shower. He would never be clean. He would never be pure again.

* * *

Sirius darted upright and threw his bed covers off of himself, despite still shivering from the ghastly cold that had invaded his body over the course his dream.

Sighing and looking at his bedside clock, he saw that it read 5 a.m., and groaned.

"Well, I guess it's another early day at the office."

He could try to sleep again, but if he did that would yield one of two possibilities; either he would have another one of those god-awful dreams and wake up an hour later, or his body would decide to screw him over, and he would sleep through his alarm and wake up around 10 and be late, _again._ Fucking biphasic sleep patterns.

Slowly, he got to his feet, cracking his back as he did, and headed towards the bathroom, wand in hand.

He swung the bathroom door open with a shout, "Khor! Get the hell out of my bathtub."

As usual, the snake did nothing, so he sent a stinging hex at it, watching, unimpressed, as the snake rose up in the tub to hiss at him menacingly.

He just pointed at the door. "Out."

Slowly, Khor slithered out of the bathtub and towards the door, hissing as he did (probably cursing up a storm, given his tone), and Sirius slammed the door behind him.

He pointed his wand at the hot water, turning it on and stepping into the shower, ignoring the burn on his skin.

There wasn't anything quite like a hot shower.

He let the water burn his eyes, keeping them open as it ran down his face; one morning misstep and he'd be forced to witness one wrong memory from Azkaban. His therapist in St Mungo's called them 'flashbacks'. They were easy enough to avoid; he just couldn't close his eyes for long when hearing the sound of rushing or falling water (it made falling asleep in the rain an absolute bitch and near impossible without the aid of potions and silencing charms), but…

He'd probably still be at work on time, so maybe it didn't matter. Maybe they wouldn't be as bad this time. Maybe he was stronger now. He _was_ stronger. He couldn't let them win. They'd never win.

He let his eyes fall shut, and, predictably, it happened - it started as a strange sensation, as a kind of deja vu, and then crept into something more sinister, that rendered the water on his skin grime and the heat inside him foul and sickly and then there was the pangs of hunger and that smell, that _disgusting fucking smell_ , and the darkness behind his eyelids began to swirl into a familiar image; and then the sensation migrated to his tightening throat and down his aching chest to his stomach…

Oh well...vomiting in the shower was better than vomiting...almost anywhere else.

After his semi-successful shower he wrapped a towel around his waist and made his way downstairs.

As he passed the drawing room, he noticed a shrunken Nagini and Naya - who seemed to get along quite well - sitting in front of the television watching _Star Trek_ (he'd taught them how to operate the VCR to give them something to do while he was at work; after the summer he and Harry came home to complaints from Dobby and Kreacher of cleaning up after bored snakes).

"G'morning, snakes."

Only Naya noticed (or acknowledged) him, and waved her tail like Harry had taught her to. He didn't particularly like snakes, but it always made him smile.

Eventually, he made it down the many stairs of Grimmauld Place to where Dobby had prepared for him his usual spread of bacon, eggs, and black coffee. The bacon was especially juicy that morning, so he left a tip of a galleon on the table for Dobby.

He then lumbered back upstairs to dress himself in his usual blue button-down, indigo waistcoat, burgundy bow tie - his favourite work outfit - along with his watch, which read _5:47._

He sighed, considering his options for a moment - there was no point in going to work yet; no one would be there before 7 - before deciding to join Nagini and Naya in the drawing room and practice the guitar solo for _Stairway to Heaven._

Purposefully marching down to the drawing room, switched off the television as soon as he entered the room, drawing a chorus of protesting hisses.

"Just for an hour," he said, though he knew they couldn't understand him. Once he was sure they weren't going to try and attack him in an indignant rage (it had happened before; there was a reason there were specialized antivenom kits in every room of 12 Grimmauld Place now), he sat down on his guitar chair and plugged the guitar it into the amp.

The little red light on the amplifier flickered slightly, and he sighed; it would be time to replace it again soon. Unfortunately, while all the magical protections placed on his house were not nearly as powerful as those covering Hogwarts, electronic equipment tended to deteriorate over time under the complex enchantments hiding the house. Even with Reiko's modifications, he was replacing his television every six months. He shouldn't complain, though; it's not like he couldn't afford it.

If only all his problems could be so easily fixed.

* * *

Sirius apparated just before 7 a.m. into the Ministry Atrium, which was still quite quiet. A quick trip up to the second floor and he was faced with a desk full of both finished and unfinished paperwork left over from last night. He groaned; he'd forgotten about all of that. Oh well. It would be another hour or two before his team started arriving.

Easing into his chair, he looked at the page on top, an arrest warrant that had apparently been approved; hopefully he would be allowed to pursue that later in the day instead of sitting around and doing paperwork from seven until he finished. Setting that aside, he found a couple of requests for overdue arrest/seizure reports and an invitation to a hearing for another arrest he had made, on top of a small stack of forms he had to fill out if he wanted to get paid.

He was eager to prepare for the hearing (he loved those), but he knew deep down that those arrest reports weren't going to magically write themselves (sometimes he had rare good dreams where they would), so he decided to get a start on those.

It was going to be a long morning.

"Wotcher, Sirius!"

Sirius looked up from his report, over the stack of paperwork that had doubled in size since his arrival.

"Hey Tonks," he said tiredly.

"Wow, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Tonks said with raised eyebrows.

"That, and the wrong side of a mountain of paperwork, to boot."

"Yeah, that stack right there looks quite dreadful - could swear it's grown since yesterday."

"It has," Sirius moaned. "Scrimgeour dumped a pile of unfinished warrant requests on me to be delivered to the Wizengamot for tomorrow morning."

"Warrant requests? For what?"

"Mostly search warrants for escalated Misuse of Muggle Artifacts files. You know how quiet things have been lately."

Tonks grimaced. "Well, good luck with that, cuz."

"Thanks," Sirius deadpanned.

Tonks turned to leave, but seemed to change her mind mid-step, and looked over her shoulder. "You know, you look like you could use a break," she commented, "Why don't you have lunch with Savage, Briggs, and I? They haven't seen much of you since we all qualified."

Sirius thought about this for a moment - it was true; there had always been some distance between him and the younger wizards he had qualified with. Everyone had seemed to walk on eggshells around him during training; it was not until he was assigned to a team of more experienced aurors, who soon witnessed his mettle and competency on the job, that he felt like he belonged.

But still, these were older witches and wizards with the lives of older witches and wizards; socialization outside of work consisted of occasional team lunches where members chatted about marriage and raising children - elements of adult life that he was not even close to understanding. He hadn't ever had the chance to even consider marriage, and raising Harry...well, let's be honest. Harry hardly needed to be _raised._ To be honest, the only real socialization he had was with other released criminals from Azkaban who he'd happened to befriend during his time in the hell-hole...and Harry's deviant house elf. Honestly, when he laid it all out, it didn't look great.

But perhaps...perhaps things could be different.

"Sure," he said, "Why not?"

Tonks clapped her hands excitedly. "Excellent! I said I'd meet them in -" she glanced at her watch "- five minutes at the Green Wyvern in Diagon Alley."

Sirius set down his pen and stood. "Not sure where that is."

Tonks shrugged. "You can side-along."

Together they made the quick trip down to the Atrium, and there Tonks held out her arm, and Sirius took it firmly.

A moment later, they were standing in a puddle in Diagon Alley, wet past their ankles and quickly being peppered with tiny flakes of snow.

"Really, Tonks?"

"How was I supposed to know it was there?" she retorted grumpily. "Come on, stop whining and we'll get some food."

When they entered the pub, they were greeted by a wall of dry, warm air and the soft light of a hearth and dozens of candles.

Immediately, Tonks spotted her friends, and waved as she walked over, tripping as she did.

Apparently walking and waving was a bit too much multitasking for the klutzy metamorphmagus.

"Look who I found under a mountain of paperwork!"

Briggs's eyebrows rose. "Black! It's been a while."

Sirius smiled at him as he pulled up a chair and sat down. "It has indeed. How is the Illegal Substances Squad treating you?"

"Terribly. I'm always busy, usually searching through massive shipments for contraband. Especially this time of year. Fairy-made absinthe is high in demand."

Sirius frowned. "That's illegal now?"

"Yeah, since nineteen eighty-nine. You're lucky - I wasn't old enough to drink when it was outlawed."

"Well, it may not be too late to try…" Sirius mused. "You _do_ know where all that contraband is locked up, don't you?"

Briggs glared at Sirius. "We're aurors, Black."

Sirius shrugged. "I know that."

Savage snorted. "He's an ex-convict, Briggs, what d'you expect?"

Tonks glared and smacked Savage in the arm, but Sirius barked out a laugh, before his face straightened, and he commented. "Except, I'm not."

"Huh?"

"I've never actually been convicted of a crime in a court of law," Sirius said.

"O-oh," Savage said awkwardly, "Right."

Sirius gave him half a smile. "It's fine, you know. I won't break so easily."

Savage chuckled. "I guess you wouldn't - you qualified at the top of our class."

"I still don't know how you aced the Stealth and Tracking exam," Tonks put in. "It was _impossible_."

" _Everyone_ aced it, Tonks," Briggs said, rolling his eyes.

"I barely passed," Tonks muttered.

"Which is why you got put on the reserve squad," Savage said cheerily, mock-toasting his mug of butterbeer.

"Maybe not for long," Tonks grumbled. "Scrimgeour called me into his office last week. Apparently the joint Espionage Unit with the DoM has use for 'a talent like mine'."

Savage punched her shoulder. "That's brilliant, Tonks!"

At that moment a waitress found her way to their table and greeted them all with a bright smile. "Good afternoon! Can I get some drinks for you all?"

Savage grinned back at her. "A round of butterbeers on me, fine lady!"

"Sure thing!"

With that the slightly plump young girl trotted off.

"You know I hate that shit," Briggs grumbled.

"You hate everything," Savage said cheerfully. "Besides, Tonks loves 'that shit', and she's the one we're celebrating."

"Which begs the question of why she still looks miserable," Briggs said.

Tonks sighed wearily. "It might put me overseas a lot, and I…."

"You what?"

"I have obligations here..."

"Like what?"

"I have...hobbies."

"Hobbies?" Savage asked curiously.

"I have...chess...club."

The waitress returned with four mugs of butterbeer in hand. "A round of butterbeer!" she said as she set them down on the table."Shall I get you some food?"

"A salad, for me," Tonks said, tone still uncomfortable.

"Fish and chips, please," Savage said, clearly ogling the waitress.

"Same," Briggs said.

"And I'll have the steak," Sirius said.

"Excellent. I'll be right back with your meals."

"Chess club?" Briggs said suspiciously, turning back to Tonks.

"I -"

"I'm sure your chess club would understand that this is an excellent career opportunity for you," Sirius interjected, looking at Tonks pointedly.

Tonks nodded miserably. "I suppose. And I would love to work overseas - I really would - but with You-Know-Who being back -"

"Oh for Merlin's sake, Tonks," Briggs said, "He's not back."

"He is," Tonks persisted.

"Then where is he?" Briggs retorted, "Where are the terrorist attacks, kidnappings, murders?"

"He's -"

She glanced over at Sirius, who was staring at her warningly. The Order of the Phoenix _had_ found evidence, albeit sparse, of Voldemort's activity - mostly recruitment efforts among magical creatures. Unfortunately, it would be in poor judgement to publicize or broadcast this evidence; it was crucial that Voldemort remained unaware that they were tracking his movements, and that the Ministry didn't discover that the Order was active once again.

And even knowing that, Tonks was trying to recruit. He was guilty of this as well - it was difficult working with people who thought his godson was a liar, and he'd convinced most of the people on his squad otherwise, but the Auror Office was still ignorant of the truth as a whole. Dumbledore had given them instructions to 'do what they could' but secrecy was to come before all else.

"He's probably recruiting, gathering strength," Tonks said vaguely. "Besides, there was an _eye-witness account_ of him returning. What more proof does anyone need?"

"An eye-witness account from some traumatized kid," Savage pointed out, before glancing at Sirius and adding on, "No offence."

"Offence taken," Sirius muttered. "My godson isn't just some traumatized, delusional kid."

Briggs rolled his eyes. "Come on Black, even if he's your godson, you can't possibly believe that a fourteen year old escaped the greatest dark wizard of all time unscathed?"

"It wasn't unscathed," Sirius said quietly, his grey eyes glimmering with anger, "That _sick fuck_ almost killed Harry. When he aparated back to Hogsmeade he was on death's door. Splinched - almost lost his arm - shoulder dislocated, nerve damage from the cruciatus curse, both legs fractured, even more curse damage..." His nails dug into the table. "Seeing him like that...it was worse than Azkaban."

Everyone's faces had gone quite pale.

"Bloody hell," Savage breathed.

"The - the _Daily Prophet_ didn't say anything about that," Briggs said, somewhat apologetically. "It said he aparated to Hogsmeade and splinched himself, nothing more."

"Yeah, well in case you haven't noticed, the _Daily Prophet_ is a load of bullcrap these days. Fudge has been in control of everything that's been said since day one of this whole bloody fiasco."

"Bullcrap, Black?" Briggs repeated skeptically.

"Yes, bullcrap," Sirius said firmly. "It's plain as day. Official DMLE records say that Barty Crouch Junior - former Death Eater - disguised himself as Alastor Moody, and lured Harry into a private corner of Hogsmeade, and tricked him into taking a portkey. Crouch was killed trying to escape custody. But did any of that make it into the _Prophet_? No! Of course not. Because it's all bullcrap."

Briggs rubbed his chin. "Alright, well, supposing all of this is true - and I suppose I have no reason to doubt you, Black - why? Why would Fudge want to cover up You-Know-Who's return, when that's obviously to You-Know-Who's advantage?"

Sirius sighed. "I...don't know. I guess he's afraid. In denial. I mean, I'd be terrified if I were him. And I think that in this case, denying the truth is easier than facing it."

Briggs nodded slowly. "And supposing all of this is the case….what do you suppose we ought to do about it?"

Sirius shrugged. "The obvious thing. Prepare for war."

They all grew silent at that.

"Well this is cheerful!" Tonks said.

"You started it," Briggs said back.

Tonks shoulders sagged. "I know," she moaned, "It's just so hard to think of anything else these days."

Sirius shrugged again. "Dark times."

Savage took a sip of his butterbeer. "Does it...you know, feel like last time?"

Sirius considered this for a moment. "No, not at all really. I think things will be much worse, this time around."

"Cheerful indeed," Briggs muttered, taking a large gulp of his own butterbeer.

* * *

Sirius stared listlessly at the pile of paperwork that had grown over the course of the afternoon. There were far too many days like this, of late, and as each one passed he couldn't help but wonder...would today be the day? Would today be the day that Voldemort finally made his move? Would today be the day that he would finally get to do what he did best - his fucking job?

Unfortunately that was the price of being one of the elites of the elites; the best duellists among the aurors were all a part of a special squad designed to take on high profile dark wizards. This meant a lot of downtime, which in turn meant that there were plenty of chances for the Administrative Branch to coerce them into taking on mountains and mountains of paperwork.

He'd take anything at this point, anything…

"Black! Drop the quill and grab your wand!"

Sirius instantly dropped his quill and rose to his feet, reaching out and summoning his coat to his hand.

"You know me, Janson, I sleep with my wand."

Janson's lips twitched as he led Sirius down to the Atrium. "There's been a sighting in Knockturn Alley."

Sirius's eyes widened. "Of who?" he asked eagerly.

Janson quirked his eyebrow. "Ivan Fyodorov. Escaped Dogrodnov Prison in Siberia four months ago. He's been at large but unsighted until now. Dangerous dark wizard, skilled duellist, you know the drill." He glanced over his shoulder and suddenly barked, "Goldstein, Burgens, with me!"

Two aurors ran over to them, drawing the eyes of several of sedate Ministry workers lumbering about the Atrium

"The entrance to Knockturn Alley, now!"

And with that, the four wizards disapparated.

When they apparated into the entrance of Knockturn Alley, they found themselves in the faint glow of a shrouded golden sunset and greeted by the slightly musty smell that always emanated from Knockturn Alley.

"Now," Janson said quietly, "I sent in an emergency warrant for the activation of an anti-apparition ward over all of Knockturn Alley, and it should be activated…." He glanced at his watch. "...Now." He looked over his shoulder. "Fyodorov is known to be very fast, very skilled with disillusionment. Keep a sharp eye out."

And with that, the four aurors filed into the alley, eyes darting from side to side, up and down.

Eventually, Sirius noticed that feeling he had learned to recognize, that feeling of being watched.

Counting to three, Sirius whipped around, wand aimed at nothing in particular, " _Stupefy!_ "

Sure enough, his spell colliding with the roof above was followed by the telltale signs of a startled wizard holding up a disillusionment spell - a slight ripple in the colours painting the world.

Quickly, he cast _non pondere_ on his feet to give him a boost, and with a jump, he was scrambling onto the roof. " _Petrificus totalus!"_

Fyodorov narrowly sidestepped the curse, and, realizing that it was of no more use to him, he let the disillusionment charm dissipate, revealing a tall, lean man, that had Sirius freezing in his tracks.

Hollow eyes. Bones jutting out here and there. Skin pasty white. It was like looking in a mirror and into the past at once.

However, he quickly squashed whatever empathy he had - this was a _dark wizard._ He'd been in prison because he _deserved it_.

He cast another curse which Fyodorov dodged swiftly before he took off across the rooftops.

Sirius darted after him, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Soon Janson was beside him.

"Black, veer to the right, I'm to the left. Burgens has gone to the end of the Alley and Goldstein is following below. Go!"

Sirius nodded and darted to the right, firing curses and hexes indiscriminately whilst Fyodorov dodged with expert precision; however, Janson was doing the exact same thing, and eventually one of _his_ curses made it through, sending Fyodorov falling from the rooftop.

Sirius and Janson both ran over to the spot where he fell and landed in the midst of Goldstein and Fyodorov duelling. Just as Goldstein lost his wand, Sirius regained his balance.

" _Stupefy!"_

The curse hit Fyodorov in the shoulder, and sent him out cold. Sirius immediately sprinted over and kicked the wand out of Fyodorov's hand while Goldstein picked his up out of the mud. Janson jogged over, casting _incarcerous_ on the man just as Burgens arrived.

"That's it, then?" Burgens said, breathing heavily.

"Seems like it," Janson said. " _Expecto Patronum_."

A glowing white bear erupted from the man's wand, and he said, "Tell the Incarceration Squad we have caught Fyodorov."

"That wasn't so bad," Goldstein remarked, wiping off his wand.

"It was four to one," Sirius pointed out.

"Don't complain, Black, you got a break from your paperwork," Janson said.

Sirius rolled his eyes, but as he did, the sign on the pub across from them caught his eye. " _The One-Eyed Hag!"_ he exclaimed. "Anyone fancy a drink? I've been recommended their Old Fashioneds."

Burgens shrugged. "I could use a drink. A straight glass of gin I think."

"You could always use a drink, Burgens," Janson said gruffly.

"Well, with a wife like his…" Goldstein said musingly.

"Oh shut up Goldstein," Burgens snapped.

"I'm in, by the way," Goldstein said, ignoring him.

Sirius looked over at Janson. "What do you say, Janson? Whisky, gin, or sobriety?"

Janson prodded Fyodorov with his foot and shrugged. "I'll take a vodka."

* * *

Sirius shrugged off his shirt and kicked off his pants, before grabbing the bottle of blended scotch sitting on his bedroom bookshelf as he stumbled into bed. It was raining.

He gulped down a good quarter of it before melting into his pillow. For a while he lay on his back with his eyes wide open, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain on the windows.

Another gulp of whisky.

Another.

Another.

And then sleep.

* * *

Rinse. Repeat.

* * *

Sirius awoke to a cacophony of clanging sounds jarring him from his slumber.

Slowly and with a grimace, he opened his eyes, finding Dobby standing beside his bed with a pair of frying pans, smashing them against each other with glee on his face.

"I'm up Dobs, I'm up," he groaned.

"Most excellent, Master Sirius!" Dobby exclaimed.

"Now, what did I do to deserve this?"

"You, sir, have overslept!"

"For what? It's a fucking Saturday," Sirius said sourly.

"And the day Master Harry returns for his Christmas holiday," Dobby added cheerfully.

Sirius's eyes widened and he looked at the clock on his bedside table. "4 pm? How is it 4 pm?"

Dobby shrugged. "Master Sirius _did_ have his last drink at nine this morning."

Sirius felt his face contort in puzzlement. " _Really?_ "

Dobby nodded.

Sirius frowned, trying to recall the previous night, and, er, current morning. He went into work late on Friday and in turn stayed late - until 10 pm. Then there was an Order meeting until midnight, after which he and Tonks headed to the One-Eyed Hag, which was open until 4 am...they met some _lovely_ ladies there, who invited them over, and then he and Tonks stumbled home around 8 am….

He put his head in his hands. What kind of irresponsible jackass goes on a bender the night before he has to pick up his godson?

"O-ok, Dobby. Thanks for waking me...I guess. Harry's train arrives at five, right?"

"It does, sir."

"And is Tonks still here?"

"Asleep on the couch in the drawing room," Dobby confirmed.

Sirius nodded. "Alright then. Prepare a quick egg scramble for me in the dining room and then have a full English brought up to Tonks in the drawing room….and make something nice for dinner...there'll be four of us."

"Of course, Master Sirius!" And with that Dobby vanished with a small _crack_.

Sirius groaned as he sat up, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes burned and his head pounded. Dobby's wake up call certainly hadn't helped the hangover.

He made quick of showering and dressing himself (not _too_ sloppily) and eating the quick breakfast Dobby prepared for him before apparating to King's Cross Station, where he waited eagerly near Platform 9 ¾ for his godson and his best friend to arrive.

Almost as soon as the clock struck five, he saw two boys in black wool coats and Slytherin scarves appear through the portal, the one with the wilder, darker hair leading the march. Upon spotting Sirius, he jogged forward, and Sirius immediately wrapped him up in a tight embrace, which was a moment later returned with almost equal vigour.

He pulled away to get a good look at his godson. "You're taller...and stronger. Good to see you've been eating."

"I know, right?" the other boy, Theo, said, smiling over at Harry. "That fact's owed to me, by the way."

Sirius laughed. "I suppose I owe you thanks, for that."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Shall we be off to Grimmauld Place, then?"

"Absolutely," Sirius said, "Dobby is preparing dinner for you as we speak. Would you like to walk or take a cab?"

"A...cab?" Theo asked, puzzled.

Harry pursed his lips. "Well, on one hand, it's a fifteen minute walk, and it would be wasteful to take a cab, but it looks like Theo's never taken one," Harry said.

"I haven't," Theo confirmed.

Sirius shrugged. "It's a five minute ride, and I've got a few pounds in my pocket. Why not?"

Outside they hailed a cab, which made quick work of driving them back to 12 Grimmauld Place; Theo seemed quite alarmed by the cab driver's tendency to weave in and out of traffic, but he kept quiet for the most part (only one 'eep!' worked its way out of his mouth), and Sirius admired his Gryffindor-like bravery. The first time he and James had taken a cab, well, he was of course completely composed, but James cursed up a storm.

When they arrived at the house, he paid the driver and unlocked the door, leading the two boys inside.

"Home sweet home," he said, before looking over his shoulder at Theo. "I mean it. This is your home as much as it is ours - Harry told me what happened with your father, and, well, we look after our own here."

Theo didn't bother hiding how touched he was by Sirius's words, and immediately said, quietly, "Thank you so much, Mr. Black."

"Hey, I told you, it's Sirius, kid," he said very seriously.

"Ah, right."

"Now, how about you two take your trunks up to your rooms; you can call Dobby -"

"Or Kreacher," Harry put in.

"- to help you unshrink your trunks. Theo, since you're staying here for a couple of weeks, I've had Dobby clean out the guest bedroom. It's right beside Harry's. It's small, but should be good enough for a couple of weeks."

"Thanks Sirius." Theo smiled.

"Excellent! Meet me down here for dinner once you're done."

As the two boys marched up the stairs, he heard Harry say, "You should probably ask for Dobby's help, though - Kreacher might not be so fond of you now that you're a blood-traitor."

He heard Theo groan, and chuckled as he walked into the dining room and sat down at the table.

A moment later, he heard rapid footsteps on the stairwell, and soon Tonks appeared in the doorway. "Was that Harry?" she asked.

"And his friend Theo. He's staying the holiday with us."

"Ah. Well, I suppose I should get going. Thanks for the -"

"What? No! You can't leave now! I already told Dobby you'd be staying for dinner!"

"Dinner? Really? You _just_ sent Dobby up with a full English for me. How am I supposed to eat dinner five minutes later?"

Sirius shrugged uncaringly.

Tonks scowled at him suspiciously. "You're trying to make me fat, aren't you? So no one will ever love me!"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Yes, that's exactly it, Tonks. I'm trying to make sure you end up an old spinster. Except - you're a metamorphmagus, and can look however you want."

Tonks made to object, index finger in the air, but stopped short. "Yes, I suppose so."

"So come sit down and Dobby will pour us both a nice dark ale to help with the hangover."

"Oh, alright."

Just as she sat down, another set of footsteps came pounding down the stairs, quickly followed by another set, and soon Harry and Theo were standing in the doorway, Harry looking suspiciously between Sirius and Tonks, before reaching out with his right hand.

"Harry Black," he said, smiling slightly as Tonks reached out to grab his hand.

"Tonks."

"She's my cousin," Sirius put in.

Harry turned to Sirius with a disgusted look on his face.

"Oh - oh come on," he sputtered, "Get your head out of the gutter!"

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Well you can hardly blame me, with your track record."

Tonks, who seemed very confused up until that moment, burst out laughing. "Oh Merlin, no! No, never!"

Sirius, who was already _quite_ offended by Harry's assumption, somehow felt more offended by Tonks's rebuttal. "What? I'm not a bad catch."

"Yeah, if I was into rich old purebloods."

" _What_?"

Harry chuckled, before sitting down and gesturing for Theo to do the same.

"Dobby!" Sirius called, face still sour.

 _Crack!_

"Yes sir!"

"Four dark ales, and dinner, when it's ready."

Harry turned to glare at him.

"Please," Sirius added.

Tonks snorted.

"Did you two grow up together?" Harry asked curiously as a large mug of ale popped into existence in front of him. Having been used to the fact that he was allowed alcohol in Sirius's presence, he took it in stride; however, Theo seemed quite impressed and bent down to sniff it immediately, wrinkling his nose soon after.

"Not really," Tonks answered for him. "He grew up with my mother; I was only nine when…"

"When I was locked in Azkaban," Sirius said bluntly.

Tonks smiled awkwardly. "Yes, that. Anyhow, by then my mum had been disowned so I met him only once in passing."

"Ah."

"We met for real in auror training," Tonks went on, "Sirius qualified at the top of our class," she added on sourly.

"Yes, he went on about it for several letters," Harry said wryly.

"Even I heard about it," Theo put in.

"I did quite well too," Tonks said, "I just nearly failed the Stealth and Tracking exam, is all."

"Tonks is a notorious klutz," Sirius couldn't help but note.

"Nobody's perfect," Tonks said indignantly.

At that moment, a sizable feast appeared on the table. Dobby seemed to have gone with a seafood theme, with the giant plate of lobster, seasoned crab legs, paella, and multiple prawn cocktails.

Tonks's jaw dropped. "Is it someone's birthday?"

Sirius shrugged, popping one of the prawns into his mouth. "I'm sure it's _someone's_ birthday."

"I think I have a great aunt with a birthday...tomorrow?" Theo said.

"See, there you go."

Tonks rolled her eyes.

The party fell silent as they dished food onto their plates, before Harry spoke up, "So you're an auror...Tonks?"

Tonks nodded. "Yep!"

"Do you and Sirius work together often?"

"Not often, we're on different squads. We do lunch together often, though."

Harry turned to smile at him. "Oh, that's nice, you have friends."

"I have lots of friends," Sirius said indignantly.

"Mhm."

Tonks snorted, and Theo was clearly holding in a chuckle.

He sighed. Sometimes he wondered if he'd put a little _too_ much work into Harry's sense of humour.

* * *

It didn't take long after they moved into the drawing room for whiskies for Theo to fall asleep on Harry's shoulder and Tonks to say her goodbyes, leaving Harry and Sirius, for the most part, alone.

"He's a cute kid," Sirius found himself saying, nodding towards Theo's sleeping form. He wasn't sure quite what prompted the comment; he supposed he just wanted to know what Harry's reaction would be.

Sure enough, Harry smiled fondly. "He's funny...odd. Extraordinarily sentimental for a Slytherin."

"Hmmm, yes. _Sentimental_ ," he could not help but muse doubtfully.

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"You do realize that he's in love with you, don't you?" he said incredulously.

Harry scowled. "Of course I _know_ that - I mean - I wouldn't say _in love_ …"

"Oh? What would you say, then?"

"I'd say he _likes_ me. And - and I like him. He's my dearest friend, and I his. Of _course_ we like each other."

"And I suppose that's why you're _cuddling_."

Harry looked quite confused for a moment, and seemed to only then notice that Theo had fallen asleep on his shoulder. Slowly and very carefully, he pushed Theo over a little and propped his head on pillow, sighing helplessly. "Look, I don't know what you want me to say, Sirius. Every time you pester me in your letters about who I _like,_ I always give you the same answer; I'm not interested - in anyone. And it's true. Every time Tracey snogs me, I want to brush my teeth, and anytime I think about _anyone..._ having... _you know_...with _anyone_ , I feel sick. I just...I just don't have it in me. I know, I _know_ \- I'm a freak and I'll probably never love anyone properly. How's that? Are you happy now?"

Suddenly feeling very guilty for pushing his godson so hard, he sighed. "You're not a freak, Harry. Everyone's different, and you're no exception. If it makes you feel any better, I'll probably never love anyone properly either. Can't seem to stay with any one person too long - never have, probably never will - the world and everyone in it's just...too distracting."

Harry sighed as well. "What a pair we make. I suppose we're both just destined to keep going around leading on the people we care about."

He chuckled. "Well said, as always."

Harry smiled wryly, before finishing off his whisky. "So...I was thinking tomorrow I'd finish up my assignments and convince Theo to get a start on his as well, and then Monday and Tuesday we could explore muggle London a bit - Theo's never really been to the muggle parts before. When will Remus and Reiko be arriving?"

"Oh, well, they broke up, sadly," he said, a little awkwardly. He hated delivering bad news.

Harry's eyes widened. "Wh-really? When?"

"About two months months ago, I think."

"Ah."

"Yeah...sorry kiddo, I know you liked her."

Harry shrugged. "She was...interesting."

"Yeah...but look on the bright side, Remus is moving back to England."

"Oh, really? When will he be coming back?"

"He'll be here on Christmas morning, I think."

"And do we have any plans for the rest of Christmas Day?"

"We do, actually - Molly Weasley invited us over for Christmas Dinner. I have to go briefly for a meeting, but whether or not we arrive early for dinner is up to you."

"Molly...Weasley? As in Ron Weasley's mother?"

"Yep."

Harry frowned. "Why do you have a meeting with Ron's mother?"

"Oh, yes, um, well…" He sighed. Harry would sniff out anything less than the truth from a mile away, so there was no use beating around the bush. "During the last war Dumbledore created a...secret society of sorts called the Order of the Phoenix….it was created to combat Voldemort and his Death Eaters, mostly through espionage and counter-terrorism efforts. It has been...reestablished, given the events of late."

As he expected, Harry's eyes had widened and his mouth had twitched into a small smile. "Are Theo and I invited?"

"To the dinner? Of course."

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, don't be obtuse, Sirius. To the meeting."

Sirius sipped some more whisky, and sat back in his chair, careful not to indicate an answer on his face. "None of the other kids are allowed into the meetings," he commented.

He should have known that that line in particular would have a negative effect on his godson, who narrowed his eyes. "None of the other _kids_ \- perhaps even the adults, for that matter - have been nearly as affected by Voldemort's second coming as Theo and I. He lost his family, and I nearly lost my life; I think we both deserve to be there."

"A little presumptuous when you don't even know what's been discussed at previous meetings, don't you think?"

"Come on, Sirius. It's about Voldemort's activity of late. Don't pretend it's so opaque when it isn't."

"Alright, fair enough. You've missed quite a bit, though."

"You know I'm intelligent enough to play catch-up."

Sirius sighed. "I - I know. You're right. In fact, I completely agree. I just don't think the others will respond so well."

Harry crossed his arms, jostling Theo beside him. "Leave that to me. I can handle them."

He stared at his godson critically for several moments, before nodding with a slight chuckle. "I'm sure you can."

"On that note, though, I may have plans on Christmas evening, if you don't mind. Professor Dumbledore will be joining us at the Weasleys', right?"

"That's right, most likely after dinner for the meeting."

"Well, in that case, you and Theo and Remus will probably have to return without me."

Sirius frowned. "Where are you going?"

"Professor Dumbledore has requested my assistance with something."

"Assistance with what?" he asked suspiciously.

"He wants me to speak to someone."

"Oh? And who's that?"

"Horace Slughorn," Harry said.

"Slughorn?" he asked incredulously. "What are you supposed to talk to him about?"

"Returning to Hogwarts. Apparently Professor Dumbledore wants to give him his job back."

Sirius could not help the small grin that crept onto his face. "He's sacking Snivellus?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, quite the opposite, actually. He's giving him his dream job - the Defence professorship."

He slouched into his chair. "Oh. Pity."

Harry chuckled.

* * *

Harry and Theo made it through their two days in London without being arrested by either the muggle or magical authorities, so either they managed not to get in any trouble or they were _very_ good at getting out of it. Given what he knew about his godson, both were equally likely.

He let them do their own thing all week, which, as far as he could tell, was basically reading together and chatting, as if they didn't do enough of that at school.

Soon it was Christmas, though, and he, once again, was barely awake when Remus arrived. Luckily, Harry and Theo were there to greet him.

"...missed you too, Remus. Sorry to hear about Reiko, by the way."

"Oh, it's quite alright, Harry. We parted amicably. In fact, she sent you a present."

"Oh, um, wow, I'll….have to thank her."

"Remus, my old friend - a happy Christmas to you."

The three men in the entrance hall turned to find him trudging down the stairs.

"Sirius," Remus said warmly, "Merry Christmas."

The two men exchanged an embrace, before Remus stared at him critically. "I hope you and Harry have been better behaved this holiday than last."

He and Harry exchanged amused looks, before he answered. "You have no idea, really."

Remus quirked an eyebrow. "Good to hear."

"Now," Sirius said, rubbing his hands together. "How's about a Bavarian breakfast? I figure we shouldn't eat anything too heavy seeing as Molly Weasley will be feeding us this afternoon."

Remus chuckled, before frowning. "But what's a _Bavarian_ breakfast?"

Sirius grinned. "Come and see," he said, gesturing towards the dining room.

He'd already asked Dobby to prepare one of his favourite breakfasts, which he'd discovered on an auror mission in Munich; sausages and a pretzel with mustard, along with a lovely pint of wheat beer. It was anything a person could possibly need in the morning.

"Is that...beer?"

"Yup!" Sirius said cheerily, taking his usual place at the table. "And pretzels!"

Theo looked at Remus sympathetically. "When in Rome," he said with a shrug, before sitting down beside Harry.

"What - oh, whatever," Remus said defeatedly, sitting down beside Sirius.

Sirius placed a hand on Remus's shoulder. "That's the spirit."

Remus sighed.

"So," Harry said as he dipped his pretzel into the mustard, "I suppose you are a part of the Order of the Phoenix as well, Remus?"

Remus choked a little on the beer he was sipping, before turning to Sirius. "You told them about the Order?"

"I told _Harry_."

"And I told Theo. We'll both be attending today's meeting after all."

This time Remus choked on a sausage, before turning to Sirius. "And let me guess, this is with your blessing."

Sirius chuckled awkwardly. "More or less."

"It's not so bad," Harry said, "Theo and I despise Voldemort as much as anyone there."

"Do you?" Remus asked, his gaze lingering on Theo.

Theo's face hardened. "V-voldemort is a monster...just like anyone who serves him or condones his actions."

Remus nodded. "Even so, you are both only fifteen, do you think your parents would -"

"My parents are dead because of Voldemort, and Theo's might as well be," Harry interjected. Theo didn't even wince at the harsh comment. "If necessary you can consider us there in their stead."

Remus sighed. "There really is no changing your mind, is there?"

Harry smiled, a little bashfully. "No, not really."

* * *

Remus was very apologetic about the fact that he hadn't thought to bring a present for Theo, even though it was Sirius's fault, really - he hadn't told Remus that anyone else would be there.

Remus had, of course, gone all out when it came to presents, in the thoughtful way he was prone to. For Sirius he'd brought some pieces for modifying his motorcycle that he'd been trying but failing to construct for himself, given the lack of time on his hands. For Harry he had made a suitcase - a very special suitcase. Apparently a friend of Remus's grandfather had been very fond of some rather dangerous magical creatures, and did not like to keep all of them unattended to while he travelled. To solve this problem, he had created a suitcase with a very extensive undetectable extension charm on it, essentially creating a zoo inside of a suitcase. Remus had done the same for Harry's snakes (less elaborately, but it was still impressive magic), so that Harry would be able to travel with them, and perhaps even bring them to Hogwarts with him, if he could get permission. Reiko had gifted Harry with a pair of what Remus referred to as "mobile phones", which were apparently a new muggle invention which she'd made a point of modifying for use in magical areas. The phones had come with a set of instructions on how to use and test them, along with a return address to send results to and the phones themselves if they did break.

The note containing the instructions was somewhat apologetic; Reiko mentioned that it was fine if Harry chose not to return them if they broke or report on their condition - that she hoped they would be useful for his own research as well.

"She never really stops thinking about her work," Remus said jokingly in response to the note, and Sirius could tell his voice was not completely free from resentment.

Harry evidently noticed this as well, because he immediately asked, "You don't mind, do you, Remus? That I remain in contact with her?"

Remus waved the question off. "No, of course not, Harry - in fact, I think it's wonderful for a brilliant young wizard such as yourself to have a contact in both MACUSA and the CMM. You never know when that might come in handy."

Sirius did not miss the smug look Theo and Harry shared at that, and couldn't help but wonder what exactly those two had been getting up to.

With demonstrations to be made for pretty much every present being exchanged, the process of gift giving lasted past noon, and by the time they were finished, it was time to go to the Weasleys'.

Harry side-along apparated with Sirius, and Theo with Remus, and almost upon arriving, the doorway to the Burrow was flung open to reveal a slightly plump red-haired woman who looked thrilled to see them.

"Sirius and Remus! And you must be Harry!"

She pulled them all into hugs one by one, until she came to Theo. "I'm sorry, dear, but I don't know your name."

"Oh, um, it's Theodore Nott. I prefer Theo, though."

Predictably, Molly's smile wavered at the name Nott, but just a little, and soon any expression of doubt on her face cleared, and she embraced Theo as well. "Well, welcome to our home, Theo. We're very pleased to have you."

Theo smiled weakly, obviously a little unnerved by the hug, but managed to pull himself together to thank Molly, "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I very much appreciate it."

"Oh, what a polite boy you are. Now, why don't we all head inside? Dinner is almost ready."

She ushered them inside, revealing a home that staunchly contrasted with Grimmauld Place; neither he nor Harry were particularly inspired by Christmas time - Grimmauld Place remained relatively devoid of any kind of tangible holiday cheer, with the exception of the tree Dobby had set up in the drawing room, which was decorated with things like strung popped corn and old socks. The Weasley household, on the other hand, was completely decked out in Christmas decorations, with an enormous and generously decorated Christmas tree in the corner of the sitting room, stockings hanging by the hearth, wreaths hanging on all the doors, and garlands winding around every post and railing. The entire house was infused with the smell of Christmas spices and a roast dinner, and the air was imbued with the sound of a quiet radio program playing and avid chatter between those already there..

Arthur, who was carrying an empty plate towards the kitchen, was the first one to spot them, and came over immediately.

"Sirius!" he said happily, reaching out to shake his hand, "Merry Christmas! And Remus too! What a treat! And - is this -" his eyes widened "- Harry Potter?"

Harry smiled graciously before he took Arthur's hand and said, "It's Black now, actually."

"Oh, yes, of course, I did hear about that. And who's this?"

Again, Theo, somewhat nervously, stepped forward, saying, "Theodore Nott, sir. But my friends call me Theo."

Arthur's eyebrows went up. "Theodore Nott, is it? Welcome!"

Sirius noticed that at this point Theo had visibly relaxed, having been rather tense in the hours leading up to the trip to the Weasleys'.

"Now boys," he heard Arthur continue, "Ron and the other kids are in the den playing some card game or something - you know Ron, don't you?"

Harry and Theo both nodded.

"You can join them if you like - we'll give you a shout when dinner's prepared."

Harry smiled, a little tightly (no doubt a little peeved at being relegated to the group of children in the next room), but uttered a quick, "Thank you Mr. Weasley," before heading to the left, from which a large cacophony of youthful voices was emanating, and Theo followed.

"Now," Arthur said with a smile. "How's about a glass of mulled wine while we wait for dinner?"

"Sounds splendid," Sirius said with a grin.

"Well, come in then."

He and Remus followed Arthur into the kitchen, which was bustling with all sorts kitchen wares charmed to do the various tasks involved in cooking a Christmas dinner.

"Take a seat," Arthur said, going to fetch some glasses from one of the cabinets.

In the center of the table where he and Remus took their seats, there was a small cauldron emanating the viscous, poignant smell of winter spices, and when Arthur arrived with glasses and a ladle, he scooped some of the cloudy, burgundy drink into the glasses and handed them around.

"Cheers," he said, as soon as he had poured his own wine.

"Cheers!" they all announced, before taking a sip.

"Ah," Sirius said contentedly, "If that doesn't warm the heart, nothing does."

"Except whisky," Remus muttered with a quirked eyebrow.

"Except whisky," Sirius agreed.

Arthur chuckled. "So, Remus, how many weeks until the move?"

"I'll return to Canada the day after tomorrow to finish packing, and then I'll be back right away. My lease is up at the end of December, so I might as well."

Arthur nodded. "And where will you be staying when you arrive?"

"With Sirius, until I've found some decent work."

"You should apply at Hogwarts again!" Arthur exclaimed, "With Umbridge sacked, they'll be needing another Defence professor right away."

"Actually, apparently that honour is going to Sniv-Snape," Sirius commented.

Both Arthur's and Remus's eyes widened.

"Severus? Then who will teach potions?"

"Slughorn, apparently."

"I thought he'd retired entirely," Arthur mused.

"Apparently Dumbledore has other plans for him."

Remus looked at him suspiciously. "How do you know all of this?"

Sirius shrugged. "Inside sources."

"Inside sources?" Remus enquired skeptically. "Since when do you have those?"

"I…" Sirius considered this for a moment. Since when did Harry become an _inside source_ about staffing changes in Hogwarts? Since when was he running errands with Dumbledore? What exactly was Harry getting up to at Hogwarts besides classes and his duelling club? "I...have no idea, actually."

Remus looked unimpressed, but Arthur laughed.

"Well, perhaps we can find you a position in the Ministry…"

Remus shook his head. "You know that's not possible, Arthur - the anti-werewolf legislation has made it impossible for people like me to work in public positions."

"But," Arthur began, "If I recall correctly, Umbridge had a hand in drafting those bills - with her current predicament, it's entirely possible we could petition to have them repealed."

"Umbridge may have had a hand in them, but it's Fudge's name on them."

" _But_ ," Sirius chimed in, "Funny thing about that is, Fudge isn't exactly popular right now either. There are...well, let's say _dissatisfied murmurrings_ among those at the Ministry, and though the _Daily Prophet_ has failed to report any further on Fudge's place in everything that's happened since the beginning of the month, their tone has noticeably shifted. No more taking cracks at Harry and praising Fudge's every move - they just deliberately avoid mentioning either of them at all."

"And?"

"This is a _good sign_. If things continue like this, and if we're lucky, Fudge might very well be thrown out of office -"

"Sirius!" Remus scolded, "You shouldn't be openly advocating that the Minister be sacked."

"Why not?" Sirius countered stubbornly. "He's an incompetent sack of shit that's been slandering my godson for the last six months and has been actively ignoring Voldemort's return at the peril of the rest of the world -"

Remus sighed. "Still, if you want to keep your job…"

"Who's gonna tell on me? You? Arthur? Oh, Merlin, it'll be Molly, won't it?"

"What did I do now?" Molly called from across the kitchen.

Sirius clutched his chest dramatically. "You betrayed me, Molly! You took the trust I put in you and spat on it! You ripped my heart from my very chest and trampled it!"

Molly just rolled her eyes as she turned back to the oven that she'd just opened, to remove a steaming dish full of something that smelled delicious.

Sirius shook his head. "And she doesn't even care."

"You've made your point, Sirius," Remus deadpanned.

Arthur chuckled. "You two. You haven't changed at all, you know? It makes me feel young again, hearing you banter like this."

"But we're not young anymore, are we?" Remus said sadly. "I certainly don't feel like it."

"That's the last of them!" Molly suddenly announced. "Arthur, dear, fetch the children - dinner is served!"

* * *

Christmas dinner was a joyful affair - there really wasn't any other way to put it. As was such, Sirius, Harry, and Theo weren't really sure what to do with themselves. None of them had been brought up in environments anywhere close to that of the Weasley family's; their celebrations were loud, boisterous, joyful and casual. It was difficult to track any one conversations; there were so many on the go that sticking with one was almost impossible. Harry and Theo seemed to take this in stride, but Sirius found himself eager to jump right in whenever he heard his name being called or caught wind of anything that sounded interesting.

Dinner gave way eventually to desserts, but even once everyone had eaten their fill (there was still plenty left over) and Molly had charmed the dishes to wash themselves, the hearty conversation continued on, until a knock on the door was heard.

Molly immediately rushed over to the door, and a moment later ushered Tonks into the house.

Over the next thirty minutes, several other Order members arrived, the last of which were Dumbledore and Snivellus.

"Well," Molly said loudly, "Weasleys, you know the drill - upstairs!"

There was a great groan of protest, as Ginny, Ron, and the twins rose from their seats and made their way to the stairwell.

All eyes then fell on Harry and Theo, who had not moved. Theo looked visibly uncomfortable, but Harry, on the other hand, ignored the scrutiny and took another sip of his drink.

"Harry, Theo, dears, you as well - I'm sure Sirius told you that the adults would need to have a private meeting."

"He did," Harry said evenly, "And he also said that we were permitted to stay and take part."

Molly immediately turned to him accusitorially. "Sirius!"

He shrugged awkwardly. "What? It's relevant to both of them."

"They're _children_!"

"Technically, yes, but Voldemort doesn't really care about that," Harry commented. The comment was intended to be off-handed, but Sirius could tell that Harry was secretly amused by the way that everyone - except for Dumbledore, himself, and, surprisingly, Theo - winced at the name.

"He's right," he chimed in, "Voldemort's already come after Harry once, and he deserves to know what we're doing about it."

Molly, who seemed even more outraged now, looked like she was about to argue back, before Dumbledore spoke up, silencing everyone.

"I think," he said softly, "That it would be best if Harry and Theo joined the other Weasleys upstairs."

He saw Harry's eyes widen with something that looked like it could be both confusion and betrayal.

"But sir -"

"I'm afraid I must insist, Harry," Dumbledore said firmly, his eyes conveying something that Sirius didn't recognize - but apparently Harry did.

Harry was silent for a moment, before he nodded and rose from his chair. "Come on, Theo."

Theo, who looked quite confused by the sudden change of plans, immediately followed Harry nonetheless.

Meanwhile, Sirius sat there, silently stunned. No arguments. No tricks. No manipulation. Harry just _did_ what he was told to do. Like he somehow trusted in Dumbledore's judgement. Like he believed the man knew what was best. What the fuck had happened between those two over the last term?

Once Harry and Theo were gone, Dumbledore smiled around at all the adults, who all looked a little confused by the entire interaction. "Well then, shall we begin?"

* * *

And that's it for now! I'll do my best to post again next week or the following one! Ciao!


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